Lost in Childhood
by xxrageandlovexx
Summary: Sherlock's abusive father shows himself after years of hiding. He breaks in to harass Sherlock and after he gets shooed away by John, what is left of Sherlock? He eventually returns and John will have to try his hardest to save Sherlock before he breaks. Rated a strong T for some violent and near mature themes later on.
1. Chapter 1

**In which Sherlock has an abusive father... Oneshot... Probably. Basically where John saves the day by shooing away Sherlock's abusive father. This could take place in any time before TRF but after TGG. Angst-y at the end. It could be slash, depends how you look at it.**

**WARNING: Child abuse, may be triggering. **

**I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters.  
**

* * *

He had just come back from getting the shopping and was standing at the door of their cozy little flat. Placing the key in the keyhole, John noticed the door wasn't even locked. _Strange_, he could've swore he locked it when he left, and Sherlock was home doing an experiment having to do with that arm in the fridge. Maybe he had gone out? Got a call from Lestrade? But he'd never forget to lock the door anyway.

_Whatever._

John stepped into the flat and placed the grocery bags onto the floor. He placed his keys back into his pocket, when he was interrupted by something, or rather, someone. Coming from upstairs, he heard two voices. One of them was Sherlock's, and the other... John was unsure. He knew eavesdropping wasn't a good thing but he was worried that if he interrupted, the two might stop talking about... whatever they're talking about. It sounded pretty serious since loud voices were being added in.

Yes, John thought for this mystery man to be trouble but a few sentences he had said in sentences towards Sherlock said otherwise. The ex-army doctor slowly creeped his way up the stairs, taking note on how creaky those things can be. He eventually made it to the top in complete silence and noticed that the door to the living room was closed, leaving a little crack to look through. John stepped forwards and leaned against the wall to get a good view on what was happening in that room.

Sherlock was sitting on their beige sofa, his back up straight and staring at the other man. His expression seemed... out of the ordinary; worried, afraid. The mysterious man looked to be in his mid 50s to mid 60s in age. He had a goatee, with grey hairs spreading over and across it. His hair was black and wavy but short, a few greys were spread here and there as well. The man stood over Sherlock, as if he were lecturing the detective. Like how a teacher lectures a student or how an owner scolds her dog for going onto the couch. Sherlock slightly lowered his head (as if he were in shame) and gulped. It was as if the man was awaiting a reply.

"Well?!" The man finally said. Sherlock placed his hand onto his thigh and turned his head to the side, trying to avoid too much eye contact.

"I... I-I don't know." _Stuttering? That's unlike Sherlock. _

"Really? All life you've been saying how you DO know and how you knew more than anyone. There is a bloody arm on the kitchen table." The man replied in a harsh tone, which further continued to confuse John. Did Sherlock know this man? Obviously he was uncomfortable to talk to him so he must know him in some sort of way.

"Are you that much of a fucking freak? Experimenting on human limbs?"

Sherlock turned away in _shame _again. This whole situation was making even John feel a bit uneasy. Cussing? Insulting? Who was this man? Maybe it was another rude police officer from Lestrade's team who didn't know about Sherlock's experiments? But even so, why is Sherlock taking any shit from him? No. It was definitely someone Sherlock knew personally.

"You were never the normal kid. Always the freak." _Past tense? _So these two went back years before. Perhaps a student at one of Sherlock's schools? A bully that Sherlock took insults from. Or maybe even a teacher...

"Now tell me, what do you work as now? As a living?"

Sherlock took a deep breath before answering. "I... I'm the world's only consulting detective." He said with a voice full of pride, which made John pull a smile from behind the door.

"Is that even an official title?"

There was no reply after a few moments.

"No."

The man burst out in a little teasing laugh. "You can't even get a real job. Too much of a psychopath for people? You should have just remained being the pathetic junkie that you were." He snorted at his own statement. John just found it appalling how this man would not appreciate Sherlock brilliant mind and ability. He could see Sherlock's eyes that were so full of anger and hatred. Yet he couldn't say anything... why?

"Remember when you used to come from school? When you were just a little boy?" What? Was this man his- no. Sherlock never talked about his father, John had always assumed that he had died or abandoned them at a young age. Never to be a... child abuser. This definitely took an unexpected turn. "You came home all bloody and bruised because what...?"

No response from Sherlock.

"Why did you come home all bruised Sherlock? What was that word that they used to call you?" _Oh now that's just low. _Now he's literally tormenting the poor guy rather than just lecturing him and making fun of him.

No reply.

"What was it?" The man repeated as he picked up a half full glass of... whiskey(?) from the table and took a sip. John didn't remember them ever having whiskey in the flat, so it was probably his.

Still no reply.

Finally the man had enough and whipped the glass of whiskey onto the floor, "SAY. THE. WORD!" He screamed as the glass shattered into many pieces and the liquid started to spread across the ground. Sherlock flinched as he was shouted at, and even John got a bit startled. It struck John as an extremely serious situation when Sherlock let out a very quiet whimper when he had flinched. Was... was he crying? John couldn't tell.

"I..." Sherlock looked as if he was having a hard time looking for words. "Freak." He finally said in a low, quiet voice. Hard for even John to hear. He hated that word so much. _Freak_. He hated hearing Sherlock having to say it.

"What else?"

"Faggot. Psychopath..." He continued without hesitation this time. It was odd hearing Sherlock say these such words, since they're usually thrown at him, rather than him saying them aloud.

"And are they right about those words?"

_No, Sherlock. They aren't. Don't you dare say that they are._

No reply.

"'Course they are. Now, tell me about this little flatmate of yours. You finally managed to get one?"

Sherlock faintly nodded his head.

"John." It was almost like Sherlock said it as a call, not an answer.

"You shagging him yet, faggot?" The man asked in a harsh tone. John had to bit his lip and force himself from not bursting in and attacking this horrible man.

"What- no, I-"

"Is that it? Couldn't find a girl so you went and shagged your flatmate?" John could now taste the blood from his lips that now seeped through his teeth and onto his tongue.

"I'm... not gay. Relationships aren't my area." Sherlock's voice was quiet and vulnerable, which sent chills down John's spine. The brilliant Sherlock Holmes was usually the man tormenting and insulting others for their tiny IQs... not being overtaken.

"Oh my God you're still a virgin aren't you?" The man snorted, his smile widening into laughter like he heard the funniest joke in all his life. _How pathetic. _John rubbed his thumb against his index finger to try to relieve anger, although it wasn't working very well.

"You couldn't even get a somebody to shag with you?! Ha, I guess when they say that everyone has a soul mate, that excludes you as well."

Sherlock stared as the man continued to chuckle at his own words.

"Look at you. A 30-year-old man who's still a lonely freak stuck in his childhood. You don't even know your rights from wrongs. You could kill a man and think it was the right thing to do, you psychopath. This John, all he is is your teacher." The man slurred.

"He's my friend." Sherlock defended. John's heart warmed up but at the same time he felt as if someone punched him in the stomach.

_Yes, Sherlock, you are my friend. You are my best friend. And I love and care about you the most in the world._

"Friend?! You don't really think he's your _friend_?! Oh please, he doesn't care about you at all, probably only here for the flat."

Sherlock gulped and continued to stare at the man. It went silent for a few moments. What was Sherlock's father even doing here? Did he just come here for the sole purpose of insulting Sherlock? John wanted to now kill this man. But he was afraid that if he showed himself, Sherlock would be furious for eavesdropping or ruining his _plan_. That's it, maybe Sherlock already has a plan set out and is just waiting for the right moment. John really wanted Sherlock to beat his own father for his filthy and damaging words.

"So come on, what can you deduce from me?"

Sherlock looked away, avoiding eye contact. The man stepped up closer and grabbed Sherlock by the jaw, forcing him to look at his father's face, forcing out another small whimper and flinch from Sherlock. "Make a deduction."

John winced at the sudden physical contact.

The younger man yanked away his head (which also earned him a little whack on the head) and stared at the older man on his own. "What?"

"Well, you said that was one of your abilities... So, make a deduction. You don't even have to say how you know."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, but began to speak up. "You have a new girlfriend that you recently just cheated on by shagging with another _man_, one of the employees at the front desk at Speedy's cafe to be specific." The detective ended it with a smile, a smile that said _payback_. "I don't think I'm the one who prefers man over woman."

_You had to go with the most humiliating deduction? That he was cheating on his wife? Sherlock who knows what this man is capable for._

"How did you-"

"I noticed." Sherlock smiled again, the arrogant and cold Sherlock was returning finally. It didn't last very long though.

"You really don't know your right from wrong, huh?" The man said in such a threatening voice with made Sherlock go back to his vulnerable self.

_"Was... was that not good?" Sherlock asked as John began to storm away._

_"No, Sherlock that was not good. Not at all."_

_"I was just telling the truth, wasn't that kind of me?" The consulting detective caught up with John and walked at the same pace as him._

_"No... Sherlock that wasn't kind."_

_"Why?" Sherlock honestly asked, sounding like a curious preschooler. John laughed aloud as if it were a joke._

_"Why?! What are you, a child?" John regretted what he had said after Sherlock shot an insulted look right after. The former army doctor could tell that he was about to throw back a witty insult along with a tantrum._

_"No, I didn't mean that. Just-" John cut himself off and sighed. "Just try not to be so insensitive. Not all people handle that as well as you do. I don't need you to be killed on the spot because you told a man with a gun that he shagged another woman, or that it was his fault a close one died, alright?"_

_"Well, how am I supposed to know if I've... you know." Sherlock spat back, curious of the subject but also determined to get it over with._

_"I don't know, we'll work on your timing when you say things." John replied with a smile._

"Why didn't everyone else notice?" The older man asked.

"Because everyone else is an idiot, and so are you."  
_  
God Sherlock you could be so stupid sometimes. _

John's breathing quickened as he awaited for the next move. _No. This is all part of Sherlock's plan. He might be getting his father angry on purpose._

"What did you just say?" The older man finally replied after a moment of complete shock. John actually got chills by the tension that filled the room. Sherlock slightly shifted in his seat in nervousness. "I don't like repeating myself, a smarter person would hear what I had to say in the first attempt." Now he was just toying around. Risky, but amusing to watch.

"You have the nerve to-"

"There's a difference between not knowing something, and being an idiot. It's quite obvious in which label I sort you into. Please don't talk any longer, I can physically feel myself losing IQ points by the sound of your voice." Sherlock continued, except he didn't sound... intimidating. He was stuttering and clearly nervous, but his father didn't seem to care anyway.

_Sherlock where are you going with this?_

"How dare you, disrespect your father like that!" The man stormed forwards, triggering a panicked expression onto Sherlock's face and causing him to move a bit further back into his seat. "Ungrateful piece of shit!" The man whipped the back of his hand against Sherlock's cheekbone, causing him to collapse onto the floor.

John froze in complete shock. Which was strange for him, he usually has fast reflexes.

"You deserved e'rything they did to you!" The man slurred as he threw a kick into Sherlock's stomach, then chest. Repeatedly. Sherlock let out a gasp for air as the man stormed around in pure rage. John watched as his friend tried to crawl away and ended up making it halfway to the entrance of the kitchen, but had his locks of hair being held onto, yanking him back onto his side. He let out a grunt and moved his hands to the hands fisting his hair, trying to get them to release. John later found out that Sherlock had a sensitive scalp, after a few months with living with him, so that could explain why it must have hurt more than it should have.

After throwing in a few punches across Sherlock's face and stomach, the man released Sherlock's hair and watched as he fell to the floor once again... in tears.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry..." Sherlock couldn't think any more. Where was he? Back at home or in the flat? How old was he? 8 years old or 30? Why was he getting beaten again? What did he do this time? Should he try and beg for the beating to stop?

It was all happening too fast for John to react, but eventually he snapped back into reality and ran downstairs to get a hold of his gun.

The man continued to kick, harder and harder with each blow. Cussing under his breath with every take. Calling the broken detective vicious names over and over. Sherlock's nose was bleeding and his right cheekbone and eye were beginning to bruise. The younger man startled himself as he felt warm, wet tears streaming down his face and soft whimpers and sobs being released from his own mouth.

"I won't do it again! I promise... I promise... Daddy!"

But no, this heartless bastard wasn't taking anything from the beaten and broken detective, he just kept punching and kicking and cursing and-

"Move away from him!" John busted through the door, gun aimed. The man almost immediately stopped. He stared at John and began to smile.

"So you're the flatmate he's been shagging, then."

"Move. Away. Now." John repeated, in a voice that was almost more threatening than the man's himself. The older man raised both his hands and moved away from Sherlock's limp body. John almost shot the man right there and then as he heard Sherlock beginning to silently sob and whimper and whisper apologies. Soon the man and the army doctor switched positions.

"Now leave, and don't ever show your face here. If you hurt him, I will kill you next time."

The man smiled, but quickly turned serious as he saw that John was not bluffing.

"Freak." The man sighed and he walked out of the room, defeated. John kneeled beside Sherlock and waited for the door downstairs to slam shut. He dropped his gun and quickly turned towards Sherlock.

"Sherlock. Sherlock. Are you alright?" _Stupid question. Of course he's not all_ _right! _John's voice went from threatening and serious to soothing and calming. Sherlock's eyes were shut tight as if he were too afraid to look. The younger man was sweating uncontrollably and still letting out a couple of sobs.

"Shh. It's okay now." John assured in a soft voice as he pulled Sherlock onto his lap and hugged him close to his chest. He was furious. A man is beaten by his own father and thrown back to his childhood, helpless and afraid, and this... _being_ continues to beat him and insult him? He calls him _Daddy_, and he still has the nerve to turn him into a bloody pulp?

"I'm sorry for what I did." Sherlock hiccupped. John wanted to scream but forced himself to hold it back.

"No. Don't apologize. You don't need to be sorry, you haven't done anything wrong." John gently massaged Sherlock's hurt scalp, moving his hand up and through the curly locks of hair.

"Please! I didn't-... I'm sorry..."

"Sherlock. I need you to open your eyes. You're not in trouble. This is John."

Sherlock hesitated but slowly relaxed his eyes and blinked them open, wincing at the sudden sunlight. His eyes were red and weary and his breathing was quick.

"Sherlock. You're okay now. Look at me," John gently pushed (and later, held.) Sherlock's head to look at his own. "You're okay now."

"John?" Sherlock croaked.

"Yes. John." The friend confirmed, smiling right after.

Sherlock stared at John in sadness and defeat and John stared back. He watched as tears rolled down his best friend's eyes and continued to hug him closer.

"Shh. It's okay now, you're safe. Just go to sleep."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! **

**Uh feel free to review if you like! I _could_ do another chapter where John goes to Mycroft and talk about this or something. I don't know... tell me if it was good or not.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey, so I've decided to make another chapter... I may do another. So, yeah enjoy and keep reviewing please! I'm really self-conscious so...**

**Also this is really angst-y so just heads up. And I guess sometimes some of the characters could be a tiny bit out of character... I'll try to fix that.**

**WARNING: Mentions and flashbacks of child abuse, mentions/flashbacks of drug abuse.**

**I do not own BBC Sherlock... obviously.  
**

* * *

John had debated with himself (after Sherlock passed out in his arms) whether to call the police or not; he ended up calling Lestrade instead.

"Inspector Greg Lestrade."

"Hey, it's John."

"Oh. Hey, anything up?"

"Yes. Actually. Sherlock's... been hurt."

"What? How badly?"

"I'm not sure. He's sleeping at the moment, I'm going to take a look at the injuries."

"Will he need a hospital?"

"No. It doesn't look too bad."

There was a brief moment of silence before the conversation began again.

"Well, what happened?"

"Sherlock's... father, I'm pretty sure, somehow snuck in when I was out grocery shopping. He tormented Sherlock for a bit and... went at him."

"Oh God."

"Yeah."

"Do you know where he is? I mean, so we can find him? What else do you know?"

"I'm not sure, I'm still trying to process everything. Greg, can we talk about this tomorrow when I know a bit more? I feel like I should really take care of Sherlock right now. I'll try to get a bit more information out of him."

"Right. Of course. I'll see you then."

Then the line went dead.

John managed to squirm one of his hands under Sherlock's legs and the other just below his shoulder blades. It didn't take much strength to pull up the detective's limp body and carry it up the stairs. After walking into his flatmate's bedroom, he gently placed Sherlock's body down onto the bed and quietly walked out of the room. He went downstairs to make sure that Sherlock's father was actually gone, and to lock the door as well. John walked into his room to get hold of the first aid kit that he kept behind one of his drawer doors, then marched immediately back to Sherlock's room.

After treating Sherlock's bruised and bloodied face, he went down to the torso. Unbuttoning Sherlock's white dress shirt, John noticed that the younger man began regain consciousness. John removed Sherlock's shirt and widened his eyes. _He had done more damage than I thought. _Before the army doctor could start treating the wounds, Sherlock began to croak and groan, and eventually started blinking open his eyes.

"John." Sherlock began, starting to shift away.

"Calm down. I'm just treating the wounds." John assured quickly with a smile. Sherlock winced as John made contact with one of the purple bruises left on the side of his ribcage. The ex-army doctor had told Sherlock to move onto his front so he could work on the possible wounds left on Sherlock's back. He hesitated for a moment, but quickly listened to Doctor's orders. John had eventually almost taken care of all wounds, except for one spot near Sherlock's shoulder-blade. A gash in the skin- probably from one of the kicks that were thrown- with purple bruising all around. Nearly done, John stopped in his tracks when he had noticed a few things he hadn't seen before.

White pale lines were scattered around and across Sherlock's back. _Scars. _John wanted to cry, then search for Sherlock's father and beat the life out of him. He hated the fact that a man with such a brilliant mind was beaten senseless because of this; all because of an ability that couldn't be controlled.

Sherlock must have noticed that John found them because he immediately moved to his side (the one that wasn't as badly bruised) to face his windows. John took a breath to start talking but was interrupted on the first letter.

"Don't." John stood up from his sitting position and gave Sherlock a bit of space before talking again.

"Sherlock."

"No. Don't."

"You can't just run from this. We're going to have to talk about it sometime."

"No we don't." Sherlock's back was faced to John, which made it harder for the doctor to face Sherlock about this. "Stop trying to start emotional conflict."

"Sherlock. I am your friend."

The younger man didn't seem to listen.

"Sherlock." John repeated in a firm tone. "We need to talk about this. I just saw you get insulted and beaten by your father-"

"What?" Sherlock whipped his head around, and later his entire body to face John. He gave John a look as if he had just been betrayed.

"I-"

"You were there. When I was being insulted and tormented. You were eavesdropping and didn't do a thing."

John's heart started to beat faster as he saw the pure sadness and anger and betrayal on his friend's face. _God what have I done?_

"I thought you were working on a plan to-"

"A _plan_?!" Sherlock spat as if it were a foreign word.

"I didn't know that-"

"That what? That- that I wouldn't defend myself from being beaten into a bloody pulp? This is YOUR fault!" Sherlock shouted the word in an outburst (which John didn't flinch to, he was used to Sherlock's little anger outbursts now and then) as he slammed his fist onto his night stand.

"Sherlock. It happened so fast-" John was cut off again and his voice was starting to break as he began to believe that it actually was his fault. _Oh God I didn't react in time. I watched as he was being bullied. No no no! What kind of sick friend am I?_

"No. You had plenty of time when he was too busy calling me a _freak._" Sherlock said honestly rather than acting offended of the word. John forced down his sadness in a gulp as he readied himself to talk again. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock," He started carefully and slowly. "I know you were abused and I understand-" John seemed to realise what he said was wrong at the exact moment Sherlock did. He didn't understand at all what it was like to be abused by your own blood. He and Harry had always been praised by their parents.

"You don't fucking understand!" Sherlock shouted again. This startled John. Not the shouting or the sudden lunge forward that Sherlock did as he shouted, but the fact that he cursed. Sherlock had always thought that vulgar language showed for lack of intelligence, John found out the second day he moved in after he stubbed his toe and cussed aloud. He had never heard the brilliant detective curse until now.

"You don't understand what's it's like to be hated by everyone around you! To be the outcast of society! Because, no, Dr John H Watson, you have to be fucking ordinary just like everyone else! You don't have to worry about getting things wrong or practically starving yourself to death by forgetting to eat every morning!" The younger man started. John let him vent, he had a lot of pressure onto him and as much as John hates seeing Sherlock so vulnerable, he figured it was good to let off steam.

"You never had to worry about being jumped on the way home from school, or getting beatings and wondering _why _afterwards! Even Mycroft didn't get any of this! He left me just like Mummy! He left me to get beaten!" Sherlock continued, angry tears starting to roll down his face and fall onto his bed sheets. He let out a rage-filled huff and gulped away the urge to start screaming.

"So no! You don't know anything, _Watson_," Sherlock spat John's name like it was a curse to all of humanity. John tried his hardest to hold in tears but couldn't help but let a few slip down his cheek. "You know NOTHING!" Sherlock screamed and almost immediately started to sob.

John watched in sorrow as the younger man fell apart, obviously not wanting to be touched.

"Sherlock." John said in a soothing tone, slowly walking forwards, attempting to comfort.

"Get out." Sherlock managed to say between hiccups and sobs.

"...Sherlock." John repeated, his voice shaky and weak this time.

"GET OUT!" Sherlock shouted as he grabbed the small glass clock he had on his night stand and viciously whipped it towards John's direction. John dodged it in the last second and quickly stormed out of Sherlock's bedroom, closing the door behind him. He let out a breath and headed downstairs once again.

* * *

_"Sherlock!" His father called. It was 5:00PM, just two hours after Sherlock had arrived home from school. _

_"Sherlock!" His father repeated. "Come down, NOW."_

_The older man waited at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for his 14-year-old son to show himself. Eventually, Sherlock walked slowly down the stairs, too afraid to walk up to close. He turned his head to the side, as if he were hiding something. Finally he had reached the bottom and stood in front of his father, now trembling in fear._

_"What's that on your face, boy?" The man asked in a rough, husky voice. Sherlock didn't budge so the man scoffed and forced his son's head to the side. What was revealed were bruises and cuts, starting to swell. "Got beat again?" The man laughed and pushed Sherlock's head away, causing the boy to stumble back a bit._

_"I... they outnumbered me... on the way home." Sherlock responded in a quiet, ashamed voice. His father stared at him, as if he were looking at gum at the end of his shoe. "I couldn't really do much."_

_"I'm raising a ponce." The scruffy man mumbled to himself as he closed his eyes and massaged his temple. After opening his eyes once again to glare at Sherlock, he whipped a sharp hand across the boy's face, releasing a small grunt from his mouth. "That'll teach ya' to stop bein' such a pussy. Now go clean up, you worthless freak."_

_Sherlock nodded and headed back up the stairs to wash up._

* * *

John leaned at the kitchen table, trying to process what had just happened, trying to get rid of the guilt eating away at him. _Oh God it really was my fault that this happened. If only I had reacted faster... God I'm so stupid... _He had never seen Sherlock like this before. Angry, yes. Irritated, yes. Afraid, yes. But... this? This was something completely different. Then something struck John; Mycroft. Sherlock had mentioned that Mycroft was never there, why? The army doctor was now growing angrier and heartbroken by the second. Could that be why they're so drifted apart? Were they once closer? He should confront Mycroft, and maybe get more information out, since Sherlock is really not in the mood.

John's phone buzzed in his pocket.

**How is he doing?**

**MH**

Rolling his eyes, he took out his phone to get a better view to reply.

**I need to talk to you, ASAP.**

**JW  
**  
It was a long while until Mycroft had replied again.

**What is it? Get in the car, John.**

**MH**

* * *

John walked into the elegant room to see Mycroft sitting in an exquisite armchair. He had his black umbrella in his left hand and laid his right on the arm of the chair.

"John. Have a seat."

John pursed his lips, trying not to start shouting right there and then. He took a seat on the not-so-fancy sofa in front of Mycroft. A small coffee table was put between them, tea-filled teacups on each side. John hadn't noticed that Mycroft demanded everyone leave the room for this discussion, probably because he knew there was going to be shouting.

"So," The elder brother began. "What do you need to talk about?" He asked, already knowing what the subject was about. John gave a sarcastic smile and exhaled before talking.

"Well, as you already know, apparently. Sherlock's father somehow broke into our flat, and..."

"Ah." Mycroft interrupted, he hadn't finished John's sentence but somehow John knew he didn't have to continue further.

"And I came across something interesting. That involves... you."

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow and shot a confused look.

"Sherlock had a serious breakdown in front of me. And he mentioned that 'you left him to be beaten', between sobs." John continued, awaiting Mycroft's reply. His facial expression had quickly changed from calm to angry, and Mycroft chose his words carefully.

"My brother, Dr. Watson, doesn't handle emotions well, as you know. He could go from being cold as ice to a sobbing mess."

John felt as if Mycroft was changing subjects and immediately grew irritated.

"No. The point is, for some reason, you abandoned your own brother that you claim you worry so much for. And-"

"I did not abandon him." Mycroft cut off John, changing into a more serious tone. He shifted further back into his seat and left the umbrella to lean on the side of the armchair. "Allow me to explain."

John nodded, his eyebrows raised, deciding whether he was still angry or not.

"You see, when I was just a little boy, my parents praised me like I was a God. They let me doing whatever I wanted, and I was only under ten years of age. One night, my parents had left for some event that was not meant for children my age, remember, I was only eight around then. I was left home alone, which wasn't much a deal for me, until my parents hadn't returned that night." Mycroft started and John listened without interruption.

"I struck it as no big deal. They arrived the next morning, I had found out they drank too much overnight and decided to stay over. Not a problem, until a few months afterwards, my mother announced herself pregnant. I didn't mind, I've always wanted a sibling, Mummy didn't mind either since she had been thinking about another child throughout the year anyway. William on the other hand..."

"William?"

"Our Father, John. He didn't want the child at all. He considered the new baby as a mistake and he threatened divorce unless she got an abortion but Mummy refused. 9 months later and Sherlock was born. 1981, January 6. The first few years weren't horrible. My mother adored him, as did I. My father neglected him most of the time, never fed him or took any care of him. It wasn't until Sherlock started talking when the abuse started getting serious. At the age of 5 Sherlock would make intelligent remarks now and then and my father would give him small, painless whacks on the head, maybe adding in a few names. 'Freak' or 'I'm raising a psychopath'."

"He was only five!" John blurted out.

"That didn't seem to matter. Mummy was never home... she was always at work at the hospital. I was usually out with... 'friends', not really friends, just people that kept me entertained. So Sherlock was left home alone with my father. He was at the age of 6 was when things started getting a bit more serious. I would come home and find him locked in the closet down in our basement..."

_Mycroft turned the knob and walked into his cozy little home._

_"I'm back, Dad!"_

_Mycroft sort of grew to love his mother more than his father after he started calling Sherlock rude little names. His father did not reply._

_"Sherlock?" Mycroft called in a soft tone. He had bought candy when out with 'friends' and had planned to share them with his little brother. "Sherlock where are you? I have sweets."_

_'Oh brother I don't feel like playing hide and seek at the moment', Mycroft thought. He searched behind the sofa and under the tables and chairs, but Sherlock was nowhere to be found. This was when Mycroft started getting worried._

_"Sherlock...?" He called once more. Finally he opened the door to the basement. For a 15-year-old, that place really gave him the creeps. When they had first moved in the basement was a dirty mess, it looked like one of those houses you see in horror movies. They found animal corpses and even a human finger. Who knows what's been down there. Oh, but if only Mycroft knew he's soon to be living with a brother that'll keep fingers and human body parts where he keeps his food._

_Mycroft creeped down the creaky stairs and turned on the flickering light in the corridor. He slowly walked down and looked around the rooms that were on the sides of the walls. "Sherlock?" Mycroft whispered._

_"'Ycrof'?" A small voice replied that almost actually startled the intelligent young man._

_"Sherlock? Sherlock where are you?"_

_"I'm in the closet..." The little boy's voice was weak and shaky. Mycroft ran into one of the rooms and immediately had a cold shiver, even though he was wearing a sweater. He opened the locked closet and found Sherlock standing in the corner of the closed in space. The closet was barely big enough for someone to sit down. Though Mycroft couldn't see his brother's face, he knew he was crying._

_"Sherlock. Why did you lock yourself in the closet?"_

_"I didn't. Daddy did and I don't know why."_

_Mycroft, for once in his life, felt sadness that couldn't compare to any other emotion he's ever felt. He went in to hug his little brother when he noticed that Sherlock's pyjama pants were soaked in wetness.  
_  
"That's terrible." John added in.

"Yes, indeed. It took him a while to learn how to go to the washroom on his own as well. That was a problem, a huge problem. He would get punished for not making it in time. That when he actually started getting beaten,"

_Obviously a child isn't going to learn anything if you beat it for something it didn't mean to do! _John shifted in his chair, trying not to start ranting on how horrible the Holmes' father was.

"The beatings stopped when Sherlock nearly drowned by the hand of our father. Mummy finally caught him."

_The 7-year-old boy stood in one position in his bedroom, noticing his pants had slowly been forming a wet puddle on the floor. Mycroft was out at a parent-teacher interview at school with Mummy. And Sherlock was left alone with William. He hadn't gotten a beating for a week and the poor child had thought that they were finally over. How Mummy didn't noticed it happening, who knows? William was careful were he hit._

_"Daddy!" Sherlock called, unaware that he'd get in trouble for this._

_"What'dya want ya' little-" William walked into Sherlock's bedroom, cutting himself off as he saw a pool of liquid under where Sherlock was standing. "Did you do that?" His father asked in a threatening tone that told Sherlock that these beatings were not over._

_"I- I didn't mean to. I couldn't hold it any-" Sherlock began, shaking his head side to side._

_Before Sherlock could finish explaining himself, he was grabbed by his hair and dragged across the floor. He started to scream when his father tightened his grip around Sherlock's locks of hair, causing a extremely painful pulling sensation._

_"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!" The little boy sobbed as he was dragged into the bathroom. The older man pulled Sherlock head to hover over the rim on the toilet seat, and dunked the helpless boy's head into the water. Sherlock hands moved to his father's hands, trying to release the grip but it was far to strong for the 7-year-old. Sherlock's lungs quickly lost all oxygen and the little boy started to panic even more. Air. Air. Air. I need air. Air helps you breath. Breathing isn't boring! Air!_

_And through the water, Sherlock heard a woman's voice and the grip on his head was released._

_"William!" The woman at the entrance of the bathroom screamed. Mycroft stood beside her, staring in shock. Sherlock forced his head out of the toilet bowl and started to cry, but found it more difficult than usual considering he ran out of most of the air in his lungs. The sobbing contained of heavy deep gasps in between._

_"What the hell are you doing to my child!?"_

_William didn't reply and just angrily stormed out of the bathroom and later, the house. He didn't return for a week._

"God, that's not right." John said, his hand covering his mouth in shock.

"Mm." Mycroft hummed in agreement. "He was 8 when he solved his first case you know; Carl Powers. I'm sure you're familiar."

"Yes, of course."

"Obviously the police never listened to him but I took him out for a treat to congratulate him. That was also around the time when he started to get bullied. 8 years old. Fortunately, he didn't really know what 'bullying' was at that age. He didn't know what was supposed to offend him or not. Children would call him names and he'd take it as a compliment." Mycroft added with a sad smile. "I... had just finished high school at the time. And I was determined to get a high paying job and get Sherlock and I out of there. Mummy grew sick, and couldn't walk any longer. She lived on medication and in bed."

John nodded his head sympathetically. He had no idea that this was the whole story, he had no idea how this felt.

"I had to leave him behind to go to school, he was around 12 when I left. I later discovered that our mother had been beaten by William, and divorced my father. They kept the beatings a secret and he somehow won custody of Sherlock. I was surprised, obviously. William had wanted Sherlock gone the minute he was born, but I was horrified to find out that he now grew to enjoy beating his own son. Mummy visited most days but grew more sick."

There was a moment of silence. John couldn't read people as good as Sherlock did but he could certainly see that Mycroft was remembering all the innocent memories of childhood.

"It's, uh, fine. If you want to share anything. I have time." John let out. He sort of really wanted to know about their innocent parts of childhood as well.

_Christmas morning._

_"Avast! How dare ye interrupt me slumber!" Sherlock said aloud to Mycroft, pointing his sword to his brother's heart. The sword was just a poorly made pillar created with toilet paper rolls. "Brother, please. Don't be so childish. Then again, you are only... five." Mycroft said in an uninterested tone._

_"No! Mycroft you're supposed to act afraid! Why aren't you afraid!?" Sherlock frowned and went into a tantrum._

_"Sherlock dear, calm down! You've just eaten, we don't need anybody throwing up." Elliot Holmes said as she walked back into the kitchen to cook that batch of cookies she had promised earlier. Sherlock jumped onto one of the sofas and Mycroft followed, sitting on the other end with an extremely bored facial expression._

_"How dare ye step foot on me ship! Walk the plank!" Sherlock said in a horrible pirate accent, waving his 'sword' around until one of the rolls fell off. Mycroft couldn't help but raise a corner of his mouth in a half-smile when Sherlock gasped as dramatically as can be. "You... you... You broke my sword!"_

_"What?"_

_"My sword! You broke it!"_

_"No I didn't."_

_"Yes."_

_"No."_

_"Yes"_

_"No."_

_Sherlock crossed his arms and pouted as he let himself fall onto the couch. "Now I can't be a pirate."_

_"Hold on, Sherlock. If you had opened your present earlier then maybe..." Mycroft didn't continue when he saw Sherlock bolt off the couch and grab his neatly wrapped present. After tearing it to shreds, Sherlock pulled out a microscope from the box and placed it beside the crumpled wrapping paper, careful not to harm it in any form. Once he saw what else was in the box, he nearly screamed. He pulled out a costume (along with the hat) to fit the look of a pirate. It even came with a sword. _

_"Look Mycroft this sword is better!"_

_"Of course."_

_"Why didn't you get a real one?"_

_Mycroft just shook his head and watched as Sherlock put on the costume over his blue sail boat pyjamas. He pulled the big red hat over his head and picked up the plastic sword to adore it._

_"Thank you thank you thank you!" The little one cheered and ran towards Mycroft for a hug. Mycroft was startled, Sherlock hadn't hugged him ever for the five years that he's been alive._

_"Okay, now get off me ship! You can have that one!" Sherlock started again, pointing to the smaller sofa._

_"Why do I get that one?"_

_"Because that one looks dumb and you're dumb too."_

John couldn't help but smile throughout the whole story. To think that his best friend, the brilliant, once thought of himself as a pirate rather than a consulting detective.

"As I was saying, I was never really able to be there. Of course I visited now and then, and every time I came, things only got worse. I discovered he was being constantly bullied for his intellect, he got into drugs, the beatings became more severe.

"Once he was 17 and I was 26, I took him to live with me. Sherlock had finally been able to live with Mummy the previous year or two after our father was finally arrested for child abuse... it was about time too. It took a long time, but I eventually got him clean from all the drugs he has taken. Since I left him at the age of 12, we've drifted apart. He barely talked to me any more, or even Mummy... but I still stayed by his side. He was 24 when he got the flat, I hadn't seen him in a year after that. But I later found that he had met Detective Inspector Lestrade and had started his cases."

_Lestrade walked down the side walk. It was way past midnight and the streets were empty. He happened to pass by an alleyway when he noticed a man sitting against the wall._

_'A drunk, probably.', Thought Lestrade, until he had noticed the man quietly whimpering. It was late and the Inspector had been in a hurry to get home but damn his need to go comfort another being._

_"Hey, you alright?" The older man walked up towards Sherlock. The younger looked up at Lestrade, his eyes weary and his skin; pale. "Here let me help you up." Lestrade offered a hand but it was never taken._

_"Don't tell Mycroft... Don't tell Mycroft..." Sherlock slurred. Lestrade helped the poor lad up any way._

_"Where do you live? I'll take you there."_

_"Baker... Street. 221B."_

_After an extremely slow walk with Sherlock's arm over Lestrade's shoulder, they finally arrived... after countless times of the 'junkie' falling over. "We're here. You got the keys?" Lestrade asked, walking up the steps._

_"It's open." Sherlock replied in the monotone voice. Lestrade walked Sherlock into the flat and up the stairs, looking for a living room of some sort, which he eventually found. Papers were everywhere, there was a human skull on the shelf, more needles of heroin. Lestrade set Sherlock down on the couch and looked around._

_"Is... is that roadkill?" Lestrade finally asked after seeing a bloodied up cat with no foot on the kitchen table._

_"It's for an experiment," Sherlock mumbled. "So, when am I going to prison?"_

_"What?"_

_"You found me, high as a kite with an illegal drug, when are you going to arrest me?"_

_"I, well-"_

_"You're considering letting me off because of your wife's birthday celebration later today aren't you?"_

_Lestrade was startled for a moment. How did he...? What?_

_"I'm sorry, how did you-"_

_"Your shirt's unbuttoned, Obvious! It's probably later in the morning and that's why you're in such a rush to head home from a recent case; it's 3AM and you want at least a few hours night sleep before having to wake up early again. I believe your car was in an accident recently judging by your head wound and your recently fractured arm-"_

_"Hold on, how did you know I was a cop in the first place?"_

_"I pick pocketed you. You were being boring."_

_Sherlock went on and on about every little piece of information that he could find about Lestrade. What he ate this morning, how he's having a few difficulties in his marriage, that he's worried about his sister being away for so long, how the jeans he was wearing was a gift from someone rather than him buying them himself, and so on. Lestrade felt naked to Sherlock's eyes, piercing through every secret that nobody else would have noticed._

_"I- that's brilliant." Is all Lestrade could say after Sherlock had asked him if he was correct. "Absolutely... brilliant." He smiled bright. It makes it even more impressive that Sherlock was high as a kite._

_"Huh. Not the ordinary answer but all right."_

_"What's the ordinary answer?"_

_"A fist across the jaw. Now it's moved on verbally though." Sherlock replied in a serious tone, looking up at the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing he's ever seen. Lestrade chuckled and thought for a moment._

_"What?" Sherlock spat, getting annoyed of Lestrade's thinking._

_"I didn't say anything."_

_"But you're thinking something. What is it?"_

_"How would like to join me on a case or two? You'll even get paid if you like."_

_Sherlock thought for a moment. Being part of the police system? That wasn't really Sherlock's idea of a job he wanted._

_"A case?"_

_"Either that or I arrest you for possession of heroin."_

_"A case it is."_

_Lestrade looked at his watch and back to Sherlock. "I better be off. Don't puke in your sleep and text me as soon as possible. I'll be calling." Lestrade said as he wrote down his number on one of Sherlock's papers on the desk, getting hold of all the visible drugs at the same time._

_"I'm coming back tomorrow to confiscate all your drugs. If you're going to be working, you need to be clean."_

"So you see, Dr. Watson, I needed to go to school to get a high enough paying job for the both of us. Our mother drifted away but we all soon reunited. We haven't seen our father... until today."

"Alright, sorry for the trouble." John smiled as he stood up from his seat. "I'll contact you with the progress."

"Do so. My brother is often self destructive at times."

John nodded and headed towards the door until he heard Mycroft's voice once again.

"The thing, John Watson, is that people can call you something so many times that you end up growing up, believing that it's all true."

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**Thanks for reading! Sorry for any typos :( **


	3. Chapter 3

**Keep reviewing please :) tell me if it's all right or good or whatever because I am seriously still dying of nervousness. There's not a lot of child abuse or drug abuse mentions/flashbacks in this one... But there is a slight mention of sexual assault, so that may be very triggering to some people.**

**I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters even though that'd be pretty freakin' awesome.  
**

* * *

It was already dark by the time John had arrived home, the stars were out and the streets were busy. He stepped into his flat, half expecting the soothing noise of a violin to be filling the rooms. But no, the entire flat was silenced, as if John lived alone. "Sherlock?" He tried calling from the bottom of the stairs. No response. _Worth a try. Although I don't think he'd answer anyway.  
_

* * *

John walked towards Sherlock's door, holding a hot cup of tea. As he attempted to turn the door knob, he noticed it was locked. "Sherlock? I made you a cuppa... if you want." No reply. John sighed and gently placed it on the floor, near the entrance of the bedroom. "I'll just... leave it here then." The older man stared at the door for a moment, then went his way back downstairs to his bedroom.

Sitting on his edge of his bed, his cellphone began to buzz, causing a vibrating sound on his night stand. John stretched over to grab it, then looked down at the text message.

**John, how is he doing?**

**GL**

**He's not taking it emotionally well.**

**JW**

**Does he want to report anything? We could charge his father with assault.**

**GL**

**I'm not sure, he locked himself in his bedroom. I'll try to speak to him again tomorrow. We have no idea where his father is at the moment.**

**JW**

**Alright, contact me if you need anything.**

**GL  
**

* * *

A gut wrenching scream was heard in the middle of the night that nearly made John tumble off his bed. John quickly stood up and dashed towards his flatmate- no, his _friend's _bedroom, noticing that the door was still locked and that he had just spilled the tea he left earlier. "Sherlock? Sherlock! Are you alright?" He raised his voice as he shook the door knob desperately. He quickly raised his foot and kicked open the door, causing the wood near the door knob to chip off. John looked around, expecting to see someone in the room, but to his surprise it was still completely empty, and dark.

He turned his head to see Sherlock shaking and groaning in his sleep. _Nightmare?_ Sherlock barely had nightmares, he only had them after periods of stress, he once admitted. John walked over to the shivering man and gently shook him awake.

"Sherlock... Sherlock." John whispered, placing his hand on the younger man's forehead, trying hard to not to make contact with the wounds. He was uncontrollably sweating, and his skin was pale, paler than usual. The sleeping detective began to thrash about until John gripped onto both on his friend's wrists and steadied them forward. "Shh, it's okay." John reassured in a soft tone. Sherlock darted his eyes open and started to breathe fast and heavily. "It's alright, you just had a nightmare."

"How... how did you get in-" Sherlock began to ask until he turned his head and noticed that his bedroom door had a dent near the knob. "Ah." He finished as his body remained shaking in fear.

"Yeah, sorry. I heard you screaming and the door was still locked..." John responded, releasing Sherlock's wrists. He grew further concerned as Sherlock's shivering and shaking continued. "Hey, hey, it's okay now."

"Oh shut up John, stop trying to comfort me. What time is it?"

"I, uh... It's three in the morning. Actually, almost four." John replied as he rolled up his sleeve and stared at his watch. "Do you want another tea? Or-"

"John... I- um..." Sherlock interrupted, earning a confused look from his best and only friend. "I... I'm... sorry... sorry for getting angry..." He spoke slowly, uncomfortable with the situation and the large amount of sentiment. Avoiding eye contact, he continued, "I didn't mean... I mean- I didn't- It wasn't your fault." John shook his head in disbelief and close his eyes before talking. _Why is Sherlock apologizing? None of this was his fault._

"No... No what- Why are you apologizing? It was my fault, Sherlock. I stood by like an idiot and didn't do a thing. I should have reacted faster, WAY faster. I guess I sort of... expected you to fight back, like when those men held Mrs. Hudson hostage, remember? So don't apologize, I'm the one that's so, so sorry." John began in a soothing tone, which also lowered the rate of Sherlock's shivering. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and stared at John with an impressed look on his face.

"How do you do that without stuttering?" He asked, slightly squinting his eyes and narrowing his eyebrows in curiosity. John chuckled as he rolled down his sleeve over the watch.

"I- Sherlock, we still do need to talk about this." John quietly reminded after a moment of silence, earning a small scoff from the man under the bed sheets. "You cannot just pretend that yesterday didn't happen, because it did, Sherlock, and we need to talk about it."

"Oh please, I'm not going to sit here and vent about my past life and childhood while-"

"I went to Mycroft."

Sherlock stopped himself from talking and stared at John in melodramatic shock. "You what!?"

"He already told me."

"Why would you go to him?!"

"Well, you said something yesterday in your... um, outburst, that hit me as important. That 'Mycroft left you' and I went to confront him and he ended up telling me everything."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "So what is it that you need to talk about, then? If Mycroft's told you everything."

"Well, what exactly did happen? Why did he come here anyway?"

The younger man took a deep breath before speaking. "You went out for shopping, and a few minutes later there was a knock on the door, then the doorbell. I first suspected a client but then the man began to shout my name."

_Ring. Ring. Knock._

_"Shut up!" Sherlock shouted from the sofa, too lazy to answer the door._

_"So it is you then?" The voice was faint and distant, but sounded awfully familiar. Sherlock bolted his head up to listen to the voice more clearly. "Sherlock! Open the door." The voice began speaking after a moment, husky and rough._

"Reminder that I haven't seen my father in about 15 years. I've deleted him over time and his voice was unrecognisable. And as much as I hate to admit, as a child he... made me feel afraid, and because of that... I, um..."

"Followed everything he said?" John finished the younger man's sentence.

"Yes. It wasn't until I opened the door when I realised who it was."

_Sherlock crept down the stairs and towards the door._

_"Hey, no need to be shy!" The voice said in a sing-song tone that made Sherlock uncomfortable where he stood. He straightened his clothing (his usual outfit, collar shirts, black pants, or jeans, maybe a suit jacket to add on) to look impressive and slowly turned the knob to open the door. After the face of the voice was revealed, Sherlock froze in his tracks. "It's been so long, boy! You've grown so much, handsome young man." The man greeted cheerfully as he swept right past Sherlock, leaving his son wide-eyed and dead in his tracks in front of the entrance._

_Sherlock gulped and slowly shut the door, hoping for John to arrive to the flat any time soon._

"Oh God, I'm so sorry." John let out, holding his head in his hands.

"It's... it's fine," Sherlock reassured as he scratched his elbow and continued with the story. "Er, as I said... I used to obey him a lot as a child... and I suppose... that came back when he arrived"

_Sherlock stared at the man in complete fear and shock as he hung his coat in the nearby closet, pulling out one of those miniature alcohol bottles from the pocket. His breathing quickened, his heart pumped faster, he started to get cold sweats. Finally the man abruptly turned around, causing Sherlock to flinch and stumble back a bit. "Oh come on now. What'as it been? 15 years and that's the respect you show your father?" The man said in a joyful tone at first, obviously drunk, but quickly transitioned into a deep, threatening voice that almost made Sherlock want to cry on the spot. Maybe it was just him, but that voice sounded like the devil was talking himself._

_"I-I... I'm... I'm sorry." Sherlock forced out, disgusted with himself for the fact that he was apologising to this monster._

"I later deduced that he had recently been released from prison, about a week back, more or less. I was determined to find out exactly what he'd been there for, later found that it was for nearly beating a 16-year-old boy to death and attempting rape-"

"Oh God... He didn't..."

"No! No... Never to me."

_"Look at you, all grown up, handsome. Now are you gon' be a good little boy and head upstairs? Or do I have to force you?"_

_Sherlock nodded and slowly made his way to the stairs, unable to stop his hands from shaking. He hated following orders from this monster. But why was he? Why? If only this man was not his father, he would have beat him into a bloody pulp by now! But why didn't he? Sherlock closed his eyes and thought for a bit as he made his way into the living room._

_"Nice place you got." The man said as he looked around, admiring the wallpapers, but showing a face of irritation at the papers that laid around. "Now sit." He demanded as he pointed to the beige sofa that Sherlock was just recently laying on. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, but obeyed his father's words._

_"Have you deduced that I've been out of jail recently?"_

_Sherlock was startled for a moment, paying too much attention on an escape rather than on his father. "I- yes." He answered in a quiet, shaky voice._

_"Do'ya know why I was in there in the first place?"_

_Sherlock slightly shook his head side to side._

_"I nearly killed a boy, about 16. Almost got to rapin'im." And with one word Sherlock had to force himself to stay seated and listen rather than stepping up and killing this monster right on the spot. The detective pursed his lips and listened clearly. "You should'a seen him cryin' and beggin'!" The man laughed, placing his mini whiskey bottle on the floor near the black armchair and covering his eyes but quickly turned to his son again with a serious facial expression. "If you don't do as I ask, you'll end up like'im... except I will succeed with you."_

_Without hesitation, Sherlock quickly lunged forwards and threw his fist, aiming for the jaw of his father. But unfortunately, his fist was caught and twisted, causing not only for Sherlock to pull a great flinch from the sudden physical interaction, but also causing him to cry out in pain. The man forced Sherlock around and pinned up the detective's arm painfully against his back, then later slamming him against the surface of the coffee table that was in front of the sofa. Sherlock tried to wiggle his arm out of grip but his father was far too strong for him. Every time he struggled, or in fact, moved, his arm would get pushed further up, creating an even more pain filled yelp from Sherlock's mouth._

_"I told ya not to disrespect me boy!" The man shouted as he put more pressure on the younger man's arm, which forced out, as Sherlock's father could have sworn, a sob. "...You cryin', boy?!"_

_"No! I'm not! No-... Okay! Okay! I'm sorry! I'm sorry..." Sherlock began to apologise in gasps as his father added more pressure onto his arm, holding in tears but failing as they rolled down his cheeks. He was confused on why he was crying over this. I mean, yes, it hurt, badly. But he has felt so much worse pain than this. From being stabbed to being shot. Even that time he broke his arm felt worse than this. But for some reason, since it was his father doing it, his own blood, it felt like the worst torture anyone could possibly imagine. Even feeling his father's breath on the back of his neck felt like torture and made him force back the urge to vomit. "Please!" So much for the 'never begging for mercy in my life' phrase I had very recently_ _said a few months back..._

"God..." John whispered, shooting Sherlock a horrified facial expression.

"Oh please John, it wasn't even that horrible."

John shot him another look that asked for honest answers.

"Right. Well, he released me anyway... after crying and begging for so long," Sherlock mumbled the last words, quiet enough for John not to hear clearly. "And then starting scolding me like I was some sort of pet of his."

_"I'm sorry!" Sherlock cried aloud once again. His father huffed in anger and pushed Sherlock off the small coffee table, releasing him at the same time. Sherlock curled upwards in a ball and cradled his throbbing wrist and arm, breathing heavily and squeezing his eyes shut._

_"That'll teach ya! Now sit back down 'n stay there!" The man shouted, pointing at the sofa once again. Sherlock got up without hesitation and sat back down, still cradling his arm and relieved that his tears stopped falling. "Can't believe it! You have the nerve to attack me?! Pathetic little shit." He sighed in irritation before speaking again. "Now, I need'a glass for my whiskey-"_

_"Kitch- kitchen's right there." Sherlock interrupted and spoke gently, with no emotion in his voice. His father picked up his whiskey and walked right into the kitchen afterwards. Too startled and frightened to move, Sherlock stayed put and closed his eyes in nervousness as he heard his father curse from the kitchen. A few noises of glass being clanked together were heard until the man walked back in the living room. Sherlock opened his eyes once again, expecting shouting and cussing._

_"What, is that?" The older man asked in a husky voice, pointing towards the kitchen. He lowered his arm and held the glass in front of him to pour the alcohol into it. "My fucking God, you really are a bloody psychopath." He snorted, stepping forwards and giving Sherlock's hair a little yank, but releasing it quickly. "There's a fuckin' arm on the table! You wanna explain?" He added, getting impatient of the silence that Sherlock was giving._

_"God, I knew you'd grow up like this! Why didn't you turn out like Mycroft, you fuckin' psychopath!?" His father shouted, slapping Sherlock across the face, earning a small grunt and an even bigger flinch. Sherlock looked down, thinking of what to say that wouldn't get him aggressive interaction in return. He must have stayed quiet for far too long because his father slapped him again from the backhand and finally stepped backwards._

_"Well?!"_

"And eventually he kept tormenting and then... he started to, um..."

"I know." _And I'm so sorry. I'll never forgive myself._

"Then that's when you came in. I never understood why he came in the first place, or rather, how he even knew where I lived."

John nodded and the two stayed silent for a short moment.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." John apologised yet again.

"It's okay, John, honestly-"

"No it's really not." John cut off Sherlock, then began to stare at his best friend with guilt spread all over his face. There was an awkward moment of silence before John began to speak again.

"Oh, um, by the way, Greg wants to know if you want to report your father... so they can search for him and-"

"Who's Greg?"

John gave Sherlock the are-you-kidding-me look that he tends to give to the younger man several times a day and started to speak again. "Greg. Greg Lestrade. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. The man you knew for about 6 years?!"

"Ah. Anyways, no. I will not report anything."

"What?"

"No."

"Well I told him you-"

"That I would report it? No. Cancel that meeting of yours, I am not reporting anything."

"Sherlock-"

"Just- Please, John?"

John stared into Sherlock's eyes for a moment, ignoring the swelling and cuts around his right eye and cheekbone, ignoring the split lip or bruised nose. Any other person would see a man, or as they call him, a 'freak' who's too lazy or too selfish to report a bad man. But all John, his only friend, saw is a little boy, too afraid to tell anyone about his father because of the punishment he might get in return. John sighed and quickly looked away in sorrow and sadness.

"...Alright. I'll cancel the morning with Lestrade and we won't go after him. Just... get some rest. It'll all be fine." John gave a sad smile and a sympathetic nod before he got up and left the room, picking up the teacup from the floor.

_Just fine._

* * *

**He doesn't want to report anything.**

**JW**

* * *

_**Thanks for reading! Review if you** **want. Sorry for any typos... I usually edit on my mobile so...**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Wow 20+ favourites, 30+ follows and 15 reviews, thanks! Keep it up! Sorry for the lack of update, I've been quite busy with summer and all... no I haven't. I've just been feeling a little depressed is all. Any ways This one contains a bit of bullying, and Sherlock being slightly self-destructive. **

**I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters. *cough*Or The Hobbit...*cough***

* * *

After night had passed and day had come, John grew concerned when Sherlock started to act like everything was back to normal. Of course he's happy for him that he's not as afraid any more, but... it all seemed so strange and out of the ordinary. But then again, when was Sherlock ever ordinary? As for the wounds, they were still incredibly visible, some were even increasing in swelling. After Mycroft had heard that Sherlock didn't want to report anything, he paid him a visit along with a lecture, only to receive the same answer; No. Even Lestrade grew greatly concerned and had rang over, asking if he was absolutely sure if he didn't want to report. Again, the same answer.

It was when Sherlock hadn't eaten at all that day when John came to confront him.

"Sherlock," John started, taking a seat on the armchair in front of Sherlock's. "It's been five days."

"Since what?"

"Since you've last eaten."

Sherlock turned his head from staring at the fireplace (that wasn't even lit) to look at John. He cocked an eyebrow as he replied. "So?"

"So, eat now, before you faint of starvation."

"Oh please, John-"

"No, Sherlock, I'm serious." John said as he leaned forwards and pulled up a lecturing index finger. Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes as he got more comfortable in his seat.

"Eating's boring; slows me down."

"You're not even on a case!"

"Slows down my thinking." Sherlock mumbled in an emotionless tone. He held up his two hands to his nose, as if he were praying, while John finally stood up and stared down at him.

"I'm going to make you something to eat, and if I don't see it finished by tomorrow morning, I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I'll have to try to force you."

Sherlock just smiled at this, as if it were a good price of entertainment. "Is that supposed to make me afraid?" He responded, the smile still visible on his face as he cocked an eyebrow.

"It should."

The younger man watched as John stormed into the kitchen and began preparing a small meal for Sherlock; a sandwich, with eggs on the side. Sherlock sighed, he honestly didn't feel like eating, nor did he see the point to it.

* * *

"It's the Janitor! Obvious! Who else would be around in these certain hours?!" Sherlock raised his voice aloud. Lestrade had called the next morning for them to show up at a crime scene. His entire team had felt they lacked a large amount of intelligence (which Sherlock always said they did anyway) after the Consulting Detective solved the case within 20 minutes. "Are you all honestly that stupid? It must be so fun not being me." He added. None of the other police officers spoke up; already used to the Detective's insults toward others.

"Right, Sherlock thanks again for your help." Lestrade mumbled with an irritated look on his face before starting a conversation with John about nonsense that Sherlock didn't label as importance. He figured he'd wait outside until John was done talking to Lestrade about the subject with no import; the new Hobbit movie coming up, apparently. He had been telling the Detective Inspector that the actor for 'Bilbo Baggins' and himself looked startlingly similar. A few other police officers joined in agreement. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he walked out of the building and leaned against the concrete wall, watching the other police officers getting in their cars to leave.

"Oh, freak was already here." A voice was heard in the distance. Sherlock turned his head and immediately rolled his eyes as he saw Donovan and Anderson walking towards him.

_Great. They saw him sneak into the stairwell and were now walking towards him. No, he wasn't scared of them. He was never afraid of them. You could probably say he felt more irritated of having to deal with them rather than feeling afraid._

_"Hey hey, freak!" A deepened voice shouted as the door burst open. One, two, three... five students laughed aloud as they all began to corner Sherlock. Two of them were in the 12th grade, two others in the 11th, and one in the 10th. "Hey, freak."_

_"James." Sherlock replied, standing up straight like always, making himself appear as tall, although the others were far more taller._

_"What happened to your face? Did someone beat us to you?" One of the 12th graders asked, pushing Sherlock against the tiled wall._

_"Experiment. Wouldn't expect any of you to understand." Sherlock responded, staring up at the older boy. There was an uncomfortable distance between the two; if one of them had moved a bit closer, their lips would have made contact. The older one, who seemed like the leader of the little group, slammed Sherlock against the wall once again, his arm up against the younger's throat. _

_"Oh, how original." Sherlock sarcastically mocked. "What's next? Are you going to ask for my lunch money? If you're going to harass me, do please try and NOT be boring." He added, finding it harder to breath as the arm pushed more pressure onto his throat. Finally, he was released and thrown towards the floor. _

_"Oi, you mockin' us?!" The 'leader' raised his voice as he threw a hard kick towards Sherlock's stomach. The others began to join in, jabbing the younger with their feet and kicking as hard as they could as they laughed aloud. The 12th grader climbed on top of Sherlock and began throwing blows with his fist against Sherlock's already bruised cheekbones. The others snickered and continued jabbing the younger in the ribs. "Get up." The 'leader' demanded, not giving Sherlock a chance to get up anyway since he had been forced up by his collar. He was slammed into the wall once more. His nose was bloodied and his lip was split, as well as the side of his head, near his eye. "Your Daddy do that to you? You that much'a psychopath that even your own Dad-" The bully was cut off of his sentence when he was head-butted and sent backwards. Sherlock wasn't one to physically fight back, but something inside him clicked._

_How... how is that possible that he knew? _

_But in fact, the group didn't know, it was just a level of harassment. Sherlock lost his temper and lunged forward at the 12th grader, forcing him to the ground and repeatedly slamming his fists against the other boy's face; not aiming for anything in particular, just whatever he could hit. Stupid move, he had later thought. The others watched in awe as the boy they were just cornering was beating their leader into a bloody pulp. Eventually his fists started to sting and he moved both his shaking hands to the other boy's throat and pushed down. Angry tears continued to flow out of his eyes as he watched the student beneath him struggle to release the grip, but failed as his muscles began to weaken. When he stopped choking up and when his eyes began to flutter, that's when the others went into action to pull off Sherlock. Sherlock must have realised what he was doing as well since he willingly let go as they yanked him off. _

_"James! James! You alright?!" One of them shouted as they tried to shake their 'leader' awake. Sherlock stormed out of the stairwell as he heard the older boy beginning to cough. He ignored the staring faces as he dashed through the halls and out of the school._

"Ah, Donovan, Anderson, here we are again." Sherlock spoke in an irritated voice as he turned to face Anderson and Sally's direction.

"I'm still not convinced that you're not the murderer in this case." Sally started, crossing her arms and tilting her head as she stared at the detective.

"Please, this killer's work in utterly unoriginal and boring."

"You sure you're not a psychopath?" Anderson added in.

"Anderson, do you mind keeping your voice down? You lower- what?" Sherlock cut himself off as he noticed Sally staring at him in great shock.

"What the hell happened to your face?" She asked in genuine concern, crossing her arms and eyeing the massive and unnoticeable (or rather, noticeable) swelling just around his left eye. Sherlock gave no reply and started to step away, but Donovan caught him by the shoulder and pulled him back. "No, seriously."

"Did someone beat you to us already?" Anderson budded in and spoke in an obnoxious voice that would have wanted to make anyone slap him upside the head.

Donovan laughed at his comment but quickly responded, "Shut up, Anderson. Now what did-"

"Someone... finally get sick and tired of you, freak? Or was it John? I knew he'd get tired of you at some point; everyone does." Anderson continued, staring down the detective and the detective staring back. "I mean, how do you know John isn't sick of you?"

He had a point, Sherlock hated to admit. Almost all of the people he knew gave up on him when they couldn't take it any more. All his former flatmates left once they found out how 'irritating' Sherlock actually was. Some of them left when they found out about the drugs busts, the experiments, the deductions, or even the fact that he talked to a skull now and then. Everyone left eventually... but no, _John is different. _John stayed even after the drugs bust, and the experiments. "Anderson, do shut up, you blithering-"

"Bet no one even tried to help you when it happened, your little, heh, beating. Understandable, since most people would pay to watch you be bloodied and broken," Anderson added as he interrupted Sherlock's incoming witty insult. Sherlock's shoulders tensed, as did his jaw. Things too small for people to notice, unfortunately.

But was that it? _Maybe John had been watching me being beaten the entire time, for the fun of it. No, John isn't quite capable of being cold. But... it is a possibility. As I am aware that I am considered 'irritating' to most people, perhaps John is one of those people as well. It is possible that he may feel sympathetic for the broken..._ Sherlock hadn't realised that he was reacting in odd facial expression as he thought. From anger to sadness to hurt. Donovan suddenly had the urge to make the man beside her shut up, while Anderson took this as a bonus.

"Anderson, shut up." Donovan quietly spoke, smirking at the same time. "Anderson."

"What?! You've wanted to hurt the freak for how long now?" Anderson raised his voice to Donovan, causing a few nearby officers to turn their heads to the commotion. "How do you feel getting your little feelings hurt? Doesn't feel so nice, huh?" He turned back to the detective, who returned to his arrogant self, at least externally.

"Feelings. Isn't that what you ordinary people have?" Sherlock mockingly asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Psychopath." _Appalling diagnosis, Anderson. Then again, it's no surprise._

Sherlock continued to turn and walk away, until he stopped in his tracks to another phrase that was let out of the Forensic's mouth, "There's no wonder John doesn't like him." The two must have noticed the detective stopping in the middle of the side-walk, Anderson stepped forwards as well, gaining more confidence to stare down the detective.

"John is my friend," Sherlock slightly squinted his eyes at the man in front of him, who gave an annoying smirk. "As I'm told, 'friends' aren't supposed to be cruel to one another."

Anderson laughed aloud, making Sherlock feel a bit more uncomfortable. "You don't actually think he's your friend do you? Why would any living human want to be friends with _you_?" He pointed a lecturing finger at Sherlock's face. "John's probably there for the flat. Once he finds a better person and a better place, he'll leave like everyone else. I'm counting on it."

Sherlock remained silent, actually not having an idea of what to say. But the idea of John leaving him, which seemed like a higher possibility now, triggered a confused and hurt look from the so-called 'emotionless' detective. Sally stood behind Anderson, a worried and uncomfortable expression on her face as well. She was boosting up confidence to say something, yet she wouldn't say anything at all.

"Nothing to say? That's a first. He'll leave and then what? Are you going to run towards family? No, no... not even they can actually stand to see you," The cruel being continued, smiling as Sherlock stepped back a bit. "He'll come to work with more bruises. 'Daddy beat me' he-" Anderson mocked a child-like voice before a violent fist was sent across his jaw.

"Oi!" Lestrade's voice was heard from a distance, John turning his head towards the commotion. Anderson on the ground, Sherlock aggressively kicking and Donovan trying to make it stop. The Inspector and flatmate ran towards the group, yanking the detective back. Sherlock let out rage-filled huffs along with tears that began to roll down his cheeks. Unfortunately, Donovan witnessed the crying detective, which triggered an over dramatic facial expression of shock. "Are you okay?" Lestrade said, kneeling down beside Anderson. John turned around, expecting to see his friend and flatmate, but instead he witnessed Sherlock getting into a cab, and the cab driving away.

"Sher- Oh God..." He mumbled, his hand over both his eyes as he was trying to process what had just happened.

"John," A feminine voice gently called from behind the ex-army doctor. He turned around once again to see Donovan. Assuming she was involved, his face fell into an angry expression. "I'm really sorry, tell him?"

* * *

John stepped into the flat, the room already filled with the sounds of a violin. He walked up the stairs and towards the living room to see Sherlock, violin against his neck and staring out of the window. The younger man turned around with false excitement. "Ah, John."

The ex-army doctor took a seat on the sofa and began to ask, "So, what happened?"

"Sorry what?"

"You... punched Anderson in the face. Lestrade is trying his hardest to not get you charged, or arrested." John didn't hesitate to go straight-forward with the problem, a pinch of frustration hidden in his voice.

Sherlock placed down his violin and bow, scowling and rolling his eyes at the same time. "He was being irritating." He replied, taking a seat on his black armchair and lifting his feet to lean on the table in front of him.

"So? Anderson's always irritating."

"No. It wasn't like that. He... somehow knew about the incident that happened two weekdays ago. Well, obviously he didn't know but at the time I had let my emotions get ahead of me so I assumed..."

John stared at his friend as he trailed off, worry spread over his face. "Well... what did he say?"

"Not important."

"Sherlock, I-"

"Not important."

After that, it became silent. Sherlock pulled his legs up to his chin and sat there like a sullen child. The former army doctor stared at the detective, waiting for a word, or just the slightest sound. _What had Anderson said that caused Sherlock to act like this?_ Eventually, the clock that was once at 12:00AM turned to 1:00. John sighed and readied himself to get up from the sofa, but let himself fall back down when Sherlock started to speak up, "John."

"Hm?" He hummed, rubbing his weary eyes then staring at Sherlock in curiosity.

"We're... friends, correct?" Sherlock asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and avoiding eye contact.

"We're- Of course! Of course we're friends! Where did you even get that question?!"

"Oh. All right then."

"Was it something Anderson had said?" John asked, keeping his amusement inside as he saw his friend smirking to himself. _What had Anderson said to him to cause such a question? God, Sherlock, I hope you're not taking any of his insults. _"Did he say you didn't have any friends or..."

"I have friends, John, I'm not as lonely as everyone says."

"Oh. Well, who's that then?" His older man asked, genuinely curious. "Other than, you know, Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, or Molly, I guess."

"There's Sebastian." Sherlock responded, taking note of John's mouth slightly dropping in awe as he narrowed his eyebrows. _Possibility that John doesn't take too much interest in Sebastian I suppose, understandable. _

"Sebastian? Sebastian Wilkes? The... bastard banker."

"I believe that's what I said."

"You... you can't honestly believe that he's a friend." _That came out more insulting than I intended. _"I mean, he's a bit of an irritating dick, right?" John continued, _Sherlock doesn't really believe that Wilkes was anywhere near friendly, does he? He was mocking Sherlock practically the entire that we were at the bank!_

"Well, John, assuming you mean the word 'Dick' as the human male organ, then no, I do not see the similarity and comparison of the two. Unless you mean it in the terms of, what you ordinary people call a 'douche', then I can't disagree with you on that."

John slightly shook his head, incredulous of the subject. "Well then why do you consider him a friend, if he's that much of a bastard?" He wasn't sure Sherlock knew the true definition of what a 'friend' actually was. Well, maybe that is understandable, John struck Sherlock as quite a lonely man when they had first met.

"Well, he was kind at certain points at Uni."

"And the other times?"

"Nothing really, I presume. Only came to me when he needed something desperately. And sometimes he'd get me out of beatings, not that there were any beating at Uni..."

John stood up and massaged his temple, "Sherlock, he wasn't your friend." _Was Sebastian really the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend, before me?_

Sherlock suddenly shot John a confused look, as if he were not making out the words that John was saying. The emotions switched between the two, John being the admitting one and Sherlock being the incredulous one. "I don't understand."

"Me? I'm your friend. Lestrade is your friend. Mrs. Hudson is your friend. But Sebastian Wilkes definitely wasn't, from what you just told me, it looks like he just used you."

Sherlock stared at John for what seemed like forever, slightly squinting his eyes and trying to decide whether John was right or not. Which eventually he came to the sense that, he was. He almost laughed aloud, _Someone so superior as myself gets tricked and used by an ordinary idiot? _With that thought, Sherlock stood up and walked towards his trench coat, slipping it on and shortly after, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"Where are you going?" John asked, watching Sherlock leave the room and hop down the stairs. John followed him down, watching him open the door to the flat and prepare himself to walk out.

"Fresh air." He blatantly responded, closing the door behind him.

* * *

He walked along the side-walk, watching the vehicles drive by and the street lights flicker. He needed to think is all. John would he throwing useless and unimportant questions at him all night, and in his opinion, walking along an empty side-walk seemed more fun and appealing. But John was right, wasn't he? That Sebastian was a false friend. _Some ordinary people are startlingly brilliant in sentimental situations._ Sherlock turned the corner into a alley way. About halfway in, he felt a pinch on the side of his neck, and then everything went black.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Leave a review if you like.**

**Also, yes. I am fully aware that Anderson isn't that much of a douche bag but I needed someone to be and he was the one I thought of first. This one is a bit... dull and boring. And again, sorry for any typos.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Yeah, no notes to really add here. **

**I don't own BBC Sherlock or its characters, obviously.  
**

* * *

His eyes flickered open, only to find blackness in front of him. His head pounded, and his limbs felt weary and sore. The detective looked around, only noticing a flickering light bulb hanging above him, providing a very dim light that barely light up anything except for the pipe that went through the ceiling. His arms were bound to the same rusty pipe and his ankles were tied together with thick rope. It seemed like one of those basements that featured in those stupid horror movies John forced him to watch. They were utterly predictable and the victims (before their death that is) were absolute idiots, nobody in the world is _that_ stupid.

His clothes were still on, except for his scarf and coat. He couldn't think clearly; everything in his brain seemed foggy and noisy, if that's possible. And then that's when he noticed the footsteps. There was someone circling him and the pipe he was tied to. The footsteps continued circling for what seemed like an hour at least, hidden beneath the darkness in the room. "Who are you?" Sherlock finally spoke, his voice croaked and was almost unable to hear. The footsteps continued. "Who are you?" The young detective repeated, more clear this time but his voice was droopy. And then the footsteps stopped, and it was silent for an extra few minutes. Sherlock struggled within the ropes used to bound his arms and legs together, but gave up once it was clear that it was impossible to get out of.

"Didn't think I'd see you again this soon." Said a voice within the blackness of the room. It was a low voice, yet high at the same time, if that makes sense. Sherlock couldn't tell which part of the room the voice came from, his mind was failing him. Then the mystery man emerged from the darkness and invaded Sherlock's space. Sherlock looked up to see a familiar face; Moriarty. "Disappointing really. I wanted our next meeting to be a bit of a surprise... Oh well." He continued in a sing-song voice. All Sherlock did was stare. What was going to happen to him? Torture? Moriarty knelt down, eye-level with Sherlock.

"I would have picked a more... comfortable room but I was in a bit of a rush. Hope ya' don't mind, love." Moriarty held his arm out, his finger reaching out and dragging along Sherlock cheekbone and jaw line. The younger man yanked his head away from Moriarty's fingers. The wicked man smirked and stared at the detective as if he were impatiently waiting. "Well?! Speak, I know you've got assumptions."

"Why did you bring me here?" Sherlock started slowly, in a growling voice. He wiggled his shoulders against the pole, trying to find a more comfortable sitting position. "What do you have in stock for me? Torture? How original." He sarcastically complimented, earning an unsettling smile from the man in front of him.

"Oh, please, Sherlock. Don't tease me with such temptations!" Moriarty shot an upset facial expression, which quickly turned into a calm, emotionless stare. "You're here because I need your permission for something. Never thought I'd see the day for that."

"Permission for what?" Sherlock responded quickly, giving Moriarty an angry look. The other man pulled a phone out of the back pocket of his dress pants; Sherlock's phone, to be specific. He turned it on and punched in the pass code like it was no big deal.

"Oh, Johnny's been worried." Moriarty spoke as he looked down at the mobile, scrolling through countless text messages. He shook his head at the phone, as if he were ashamed of it. "Awfully worried."

"Permission for what?" Sherlock repeated, squinting his eyes at the madman. Who raised his eyebrows at another text.

"My dear, are you sure you two aren't a couple, Sherlock?" Moriarty giggled. It's cute. _An ordinary being and a superior being get together! Like a fairytale! Ooh... that's good. Fairytales. I'm adding that to our next game. _

"Permission. For. What?" Sherlock growled, causing Moriarty to switch the mobile off and place it back in his back pocket. He stared at Sherlock for a fair amount of time before speaking again.

"You see, Sherlock. I know, about your little... incident. With your Dad and all. Of course I know, I have cameras everywhere, I admit." He started, staring directly into Sherlock's eyes with a blank expression. "But you see, he's... getting in the way." Moriarty narrowed his eyebrows and pouted like a sullen child. "Your father, is a dangerous man, Sherlock. I mean, not as dangerous as me obviously but y'know... He's capable of killing you." The madman explained. "And for our next game, I need you alive and not broken, Sherly." Sherlock gulped before replying.

"Your point?"

"My point Sherlock, is that I can have him taken away. Cut his rope." Moriarty spoke, triggering a bemused look on Sherlock's face. "End his line. Switch him off." He continued with the metaphors as he pretended to slice his own throat with his hand, creating a 'click' noise with his mouth at the same time. Sherlock stared at him like he was completely insane, not that he wasn't already. Moriarty rolled his eyes in irritation. "Kill him. I'm asking you if I could kill him, Sherlock." He finally said, with a tad of embarrassment on his face. That's a first.

"Why would you need my permission for that?" Sherlock asked. That's awfully _polite_ of Moriarty. "Knowing you, you would have just killed him, correct? You had no problem with blowing innocent people up."

"Yes, yes, I know. But I figured, I might as well give you a tiny, tiny bit of respect before our... final problem." Moriarty thought for a moment, pulling his index finger up to his bottom lip. "Now, how should I do it?" He added. Sherlock stared at the madman, slightly narrowing his eyebrows.

"I don't want him dead." The detective simply said.

"Pardon?"

"I don't want him killed."

Moriarty rolled his eyes again as if he were expecting this behaviour. "Sherlock, I'm obviously experienced with homicide, no need to worry about the mess. I mean, come on, Sherlock, I would've thought you'd put a little trust in me on this one. I did my first kill when I was 13! Carl Powers. Not to mention that before we met I had blown up a fair amount of people." The older man fussed, trying to prove himself as if he were applying for a job and was telling about his skills. "I mean, Carl and his little group harassed me just as. The life of a brilliant one doesn't go unnoticed. They laughed and laughed, and did I go home crying about it, Sherly?! No, I ended their leader's life by poisoning the little runt so if you would please-" Moriarty continued, raising his voice before he was interrupted. Adding in as much hand gestures and facial expressions possible.

"I don't want him killed." Sherlock repeated, a little surprised of Moriarty little performance. Moriarty pursed his lips and slightly narrowed his eyebrows in anger. He whipped his fist across Sherlock's cheekbone, earning a soft grunt from the younger man. Then he hit again, and again. Moriarty stood up and wiped off blood from his fist, then stared at the man beneath him.

"You'll regret that decision, Sherlock." The madman softly spoke, walking into the blackness of the room and emerging once more, with a syringe in his hand this time. He knelt in front of Sherlock and held the needle close to his neck. The detective squirmed in his spot and pulled his neck away as far as he could, but relaxed it shortly after finding no point in fighting back. "Nighty night, The Great Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty whispered before he pushed the needle into Sherlock's neck and watched him drift off into unconsciousness.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! This one is pretty short, I know. I greatly apologise if there are any typos.**


	6. Chapter 6

**I greatly apologise for any spelling errors. I'm editing on my mobile, so please excuse me. And thank you for the 20 reviews, 50 follows and 32 favourites! Keep reviewing! I'm honestly not sure where I'm going with this, I have a lot of outcomes in my head... but okay, we'll see how it turns out.**

**I obviously don't own BBC Sherlock or its characters. If I did, there would probably be so much puns in the show oh my god**.

* * *

**_4 Hours Earlier _**

John blinked as the door slammed shut in his face. _Fresh air? Was it something I had said? Have I upset him somehow? Maybe he honestly thought Sebastian to be a friend. _The former army doctor stood in front of the door for a moment, but quickly turned around and went back upstairs. He paced around the living room for quite the amount of time. Maybe he should wait for Sherlock to come back, who knows what might happen. _Well... Sherlock is a grown man. I think he's capable of taking care of himself. I should stop treating him like such a child. But, there's still a possibility of his father showing up... Right then, I'll try to stay up until he returns_.**  
**

Eventually the hours passed and 1AM quickly turned to 2AM.

**_3 Hours Earlier_**

_He should have been back by now, it's been an hour. Well, it is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about. He'll probably be a few hours late if I'm lucky. Why did he run off anyway? I should text him. _

John picked up his mobile from the coffee table and leant back into the sofa, sinking into the cushions and pressing down the buttons to send a message.

_Where is he? ...Christ, John, you sound like an over-protective girlfriend. He's probably fine._

**Where are you? **

**JW**

**Did I upset you? **

**JW **

John placed his phone on the arm of the sofa, next to his elbow, and thought for a moment as he leaned on his curled fist. After several minutes of complete silence, he reached over and picked up his laptop from the coffee table, opening it up and typing in his password that he still hasn't changed since Sherlock figured it out. He stayed up an extra 30 minutes watching videos on Youtube (that Sherlock would probably label as unimportant) before falling asleep.

* * *

"Sir? Sir, are you all right?" A woman's voice was heard in Sherlock's head, before he blinked his eyes open and noticed a formally dressed woman above him. She stared at him in great concern before asking again, "Sir, are you alright?"

Sherlock forced himself to sit up against a brick wall before noticing he was in an alley. "Where am I?" He croaked. Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke again, more clear this time, "Where am I?"

"In an alley." The woman replied, cocking an eyebrow. Sherlock honestly couldn't tell if she was being facetious but he rolled his eyes anyway. The detective forced himself off his behind and stumbled forwards, leaning almost all his weight onto the woman. His legs felt like jello and his head was spinning. She got hold of him before he tumbled down; his feet were failing him as much as his mind, and vision was, she had noticed as well. "Hey, um, do you need a ride? Where do you live?" The woman guided Sherlock to her vehicle right outside the alley. _Dark blue van... Black tinted windows... I think. _

"221B... Baker street."

* * *

John woke up in a snore when a knock at the door was heard. He felt a pinching sensation when he lifted his head from the keyboard of his laptop, later finding that the keys made an imprint on his forehead. The battery was dead as well. He lifted his wrist and checked the time; 8:34AM. _Oh, God. Where's Sherlock?_

"Sherlock?!" John called out, standing up as he pushed his laptop aside. He ran up to his friend's bedroom only to see it empty of any human. Another knock on the door was heard, and John ran down, hoping it to be his missing flatmate. He opened the door and sighed in relief. "Sherlock."

"Here." The anonymous woman handed Sherlock over to John, letting out a breath as the weight lifted off from her.

"Thanks for bringing him here... um, what happened?" John asked, unaware of the loopy detective leaning against him, arm over John's shoulder.

"Hell if I know, I found him in an alley." She replied, staring at Sherlock, who was eyeing John's hair like it was the most interesting thing he's ever seen. "Anyways, I'd better be off." She added with a smile. _False smile_, Sherlock noted before getting distracted by John's hair again. John nodded back and watched her turn away before he shut the door.

* * *

The anonymous woman stepped down the stairs of 221B and walked towards her car, before stopping in her tracks to pull out her mobile. She tapped the screen, appearing to be typing in a text.

**Got him home safe. His father isn't anywhere to be found.**

**ES**

**Well done.**

**JM x**

**Why don't you just kill the genius' daddy? Makes a lot things more easier.**

**ES**

**I've come to realise, wouldn't it be more fun to watch him kill his father himself? That's what I call entertainment. But not too soon though, keep an eye out.**

**JM x**

* * *

"Okay, off you go." John groaned as he released the drugged up detective onto his bed. Sherlock croaked something that couldn't be heard, but assuming it wasn't important anyway since he dozed off right after. "Get some rest. We'll talk-" John started but didn't finish as the man beneath him started to snore. "Right then."

The former army doctor walked out of Sherlock's bedroom and closed the door behind him. _Hopefully his rest will go without a nightmare._

* * *

John sat at the desk, laptop open in front of him with full power rather than the state it had been before. Speaking of full power, John turned his head to see his live and awake flatmate let himself fall onto the sofa with a sigh, holding his head. "Head pains are truly the world's most cruel torture." He groaned, massaging his temple. "Interrupting such a brilliant mind's thinking. Oh, so cruel. I don't _get _headaches! It's a seldom occaision!"

"Right." John responded, not paying attention to the detective's whining complaints as he closed his laptop shut and stared at the aching Sherlock. "So, do you remember anything from last night?"

Sherlock turned his head to John, staring incredulously. "'Do I remember anything?' Of course I do, tiny mind, why wouldn't I?"

"Well, you were drugged, I assumed-"

"Yes I remember." Sherlock interrupted, not bothering to hear John's next words. He added in another groan as he put both his hands over each of his eyes, letting out a breath.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"You wanna... explain?"

"Ah. Not important." Sherlock simply said, turning to his side so that his back would face John's direction. He scratched the back of his head before massaging his temple once more, releasing more frustrated groans. "Go away..." He murmured, directing the message towards his headache.

"Not import- Sherlock. I thought to got kidnapped or something! You didn't return for the rest of the night!" John exclaimed, slightly raising his hands in the air.

"Technically I was, John." The detective responded in a fractious tone. His head pounded in profound pain, which resulted in the younger man gripping onto the sofa cushions tightly.

"What?!"

"John, I am having a moment here, I will not waste my time arguing over- nehh." Sherlock cut himself off as his head gave him another stinging sensation. He groaned and moaned aloud as he moved about in his position. "Damn... head..." He grumbled. John sighed and stood up, giving up as he walked into the kitchen. A groan escaped from him as well as he opened the refrigerator to find... a human liver and two kidneys?

* * *

A day had passed and Sherlock's head pains eventually grew faint and painless, resulting in early sleep. Finally, a night with no issues. No... abusive fathers... no bloody kidnappings... just rest and darkness. Until the morning came by.

"Sherlock where are you going?" John asked with a hint of worry in his voice as his flatmate slipped into his trench coat and wrapped the blue scarf around his neck._ Oh, he is NOT getting 'fresh air' again. "_Do you not recall what happened yesterday night?! You're definitely NOT going for another stroll."

"Oh shut up John. Now, that woman who helped me here, do you know what happened after she passed me over to you?"

"Why? Do you not remember?"

"Would I be asking you if I did?!"

"Right, well, she said she found you in an alley and then we said bye and she walked off." John furrowed his eyebrows, curious to why these questions were being asked."Why?"

"Did you see her car?" Sherlock abruptly stepped forwards and spoke in an almost growling tone. John thought for a moment, he apparently took too long because Sherlock grew greatly impatient and placed both his hands on both of John's shoulders. "Well?!" He exclaimed, shaking John violently.

"No. I didn't. Why?! Sherlock!" John raised his voice as he watched Sherlock leave the room and rush down the stairs. _What does he mean? _

Sherlock rushed outside and stormed into Speedy's Café, searching for an obvious full time worker who'd been there since the morning. He walked towards the man at the counter, making him back up a bit as Sherlock pulled an intimidating and threatening facial expression.

"You. You were here yesterday at the hours of 7:00AM to 7:00PM, correct?" Sherlock asked, hands slamming onto the counter, triggering a few people to turn their heads.

"I- uh... yeah. I saw you earlier... with that woman." The younger man replied, letting out a breath of relief. He'd thought Sherlock was to start a robbery of some sort. "Look, mate, the tarts are on sale, I know, exciting but you don't have to-"

"Did you see her car? The color of it? The shape? Anything?"

"Uh, yeah. It was a dark blue van, black tinted windows. She had the Britain flag attached on one of the windows too."

Sherlock widened his eyes and stared into space, as if he were deep thought. He looked back up at the man and nodded his head. "Thank you for your cooperation." He quickly said before storming back out of Speedy's. _So that was her with the person who drugged me in the alleyway. One of Moriarty's henchmen. _Sherlock remembered, before he turned the corner into the alleyway, he had noticed a van, dark blue, had been following him. Wanting to encounter his follower, he turned the corner. Unfortunately for him, his plan didn't work out as planned. She must have had another person with her, for the hands that got hold of him was definitely a male's touch. _Why is Moriarty keeping watch for me? Why? _Sherlock paced to and fro before he noticed a young teenage girl up ahead stepping into a van. _Speaking of vans. _Sherlock watched as the girl (approxamately 14-years-old, he also noted.) hesitated to completely enter the vehicle, but a hand pulled her in followed by the door sliding shut behind her.

_Kidnapping. How... unoriginal._

As soon as the engine of the van started, Sherlock walked across the street, only for the van to drive off._ A chase? How dull. Definetely not in the mood. Headaches returning. _He actually hesitated for a moment, but realised from John's words, _'Try not to smile on cases that involving dead or soon-to-be dead children. That's not good_.' Did this count? A kidnapping is so dull though, and boring. But before Sherlock knew it himself, he started sprinting after the van, cutting through alleyways and refreshing all the stop signs and street lights in his head, so he'd know where to turn and where the vehicle would be turning. Damn it, even though he thought of this as dull, it was apparently still interesting enough to follow. If only he knew that this was the perfect way to trick a brilliant mind like his.

He was actually almost out of breath before he noticed that the van had stopped at the entrance of an untreated home; vines climbed to the roof, the windows were foggy, the railings were rusted. It was separated from the streets and the traffic and the civilians. Nearly isolated, except for a few convenient stores here and there, mini marts, etc. The row of houses next to it were not anywhere near to the condition this house was in. Sherlock hid behind the wall in an alley of a mini mart, quite a few meteres away, watching as the sliding door of the vehicle slid open. A man, approximately 40 years old, stepped out first, then proceeded to force out the teenager afterwards. He forcefully took hold of her hand and walked her into the building. Another man, in his late 30s, stepped out from the drivers seat and followed the two into the building as well. Sherlock stepped forwards, until someones hands pulled him back. Those hands were familiar. Where were they familiar?! Oh... His father. His father had a certain rough and scratchy feel to his palms, and it turns out, these were the palms that pulled him backwards and slammed the back of his head with something hard. Darkness surrounded his vision and eventually everything went black. Again.

* * *

John stepped outside shortly after Sherlock did. After seeing that his flatmate was nowhere to be seen, he grew more panicked until he noticed the young man at the counter in Speedy's was eyeing him strangely, then quickly turned his head away as soon and John saw him. The former doctor walked into Speedy's and up to the man, 'threatening' and 'angry' written all over his face.

"God, not again." The young man murmured quietly as John placed both of his hands on the counter. "I saw him chase after a van, just right now. I don't know where he went after that." He said, not giving John the chance to ask the question. Before John could even open his mouth to speak, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He eyed the man suspiciously and pulled his mobile out.

He stared at the text in complete horror.

**The psychopath is mine**** xx**

**WH**

* * *

**Uh thanks for reading. This chapter is crappy, I know. But hey, this story is almost to an end. Two, maybe three more chapters? I don't know, but thanks for reading anyway. **

**Hey, here's a pun: John got what he wanted in the end; a FLATmate. **

**I got another one: I guess you could say Sherlock got his coat from the FALL collection.**

**Ooh: I guess you say that John loves Sherlock, and Sherlock definitely FELL for John. **

**I'm awesome.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Alright. So I couldn't debate which ending I should put so I'm gonna put alternate endings after this one. Thanks for the favourites, follows, and reviews by the way! Keep it up. I'm also not really sure how the police system works so... it's probably not accurate. The next chapter (alternate one) along with this one may be really long so... yeah. I still need to edit... this was a really bad fic... I'm sorry. I might delete this whole thing afterwards if self-consciousness and anxiousness eats me up too much.**

**WARNING: Very slight rape attempt, torture, verbal and sexual harassment, violence and a very vulnerable Sherlock... may be triggering. It's not too graphic, but graphic enough for a very strong rated T. His dad is a giant douche bag. **

**I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters.**

EDITED

* * *

The back of his head throbbed painfully. A burning hot sensation that didn't seem to stop.

He blinked open his eyes, only to see darkness in front of him. Where was he? _Oh... how splendid. I got kidnapped again? I must have been tricked into thinking there was a possible crime ahead of me. How clever... awfully clever. Using another kidnapping to lure me here. Brilliant... but appallingly stupid of me. _Sherlock managed to push himself up with both his arms. _Concrete floor. Drop of temperature. I'm in a basement. _Suddenly the room exploded in bright light, causing Sherlock to force his head downwards and squint his eyes from the whiteness that surrounded his vision.

"I see you're awake."

_What... No... That can't be... _Footsteps approached the limp detective, and suddenly Sherlock felt the need to crawl away. He lifted himself up once again and widened his eyes as they regained their vision from the light, which now wasn't as bright as it had been. A heavy boot pushed down against his back, forcing him to the ground. Sherlock grunted, still in denial for who the man behind him was. But he knew, he _knew _who he was about to face. And God help him if he makes it out of here alive.

* * *

John's breathing pace quickened and his heart started to pound against his chest, almost to the point where he thought it had popped right out of him.

"Sir... are you all right?" The man at the counter asked, staring at John as he eyed at his phone in complete horror. John lifted his head and widened his eyes at the man in front of him, then dashed out of Speedy's in a second. _Oh God... oh God... I've got to call Lestrade... send a search... track this text... anything... Oh God... _

He paced back and forth, just outside of his flat. Panic rushed through his whole body as he thought of what to do. _Maybe I should- Idiot what are you doing? Dial his bloody number and tell Lestrade! _John pressed Lestrade's name on his mobile with his shaky fingers and held the phone to his ear. _Come on... pick up... _

"Greg Lestrade."

"Lestrade... Lestrade...!" John responded quickly, his voice starting to shake and crack in great panic. "Greg!"

"John? What is it? Why do you sound afraid? Are you okay?"

"Sherlock. He- I think he- he got kidnapped by his father."

"What?!"

"He went off chasing a van and... I got a text."

"That says what?"

"It doesn't matter- just- just... can't you track it down? Do anything?" John asked desperately. "He's... oh God..."

"Hold on, I'm on my way and I'm bringing my team."

And they both hung up. John paced along the side-walk, when his phone vibrated again before he got to place it in his pocket. He dared to bring the text to his face.

**You call a bloody Inspector but you don't call his own brother?! Coming over immediately. Expect me.**

**MH**

* * *

Sherlock gasped as he was forced onto his back, forced to face the man. Just as he expected, his father stood above him. Sherlock's breathing quickened as he crawled backwards, practically doing a crabwalk, trying to get away from this monster. _Child abuser I understood but this..._ William raised the corner of his mouth in a smile and stepped forwards, slamming his foot down onto Sherlock's stomach. The detective gasped for air as he curled to his side, covering his head at the same time when he noticed his father moving over to his frontside. The man threw vicious kicks into Sherlock's stomach, his ribs, groin, anywhere he could hit.

_Crack. Crack._ Two ribs broken. One cracked.

"Please." Sherlock gasped as the kicking stopped suddenly. He lay almost motionless the floor, trying to catch his breath. The man circled him, causing Sherlock to hold in tears as he was forced to experience this again. "Please." He repeated, more clearly, gulping down a cry out of pain and sadness and fear.

"Are you going to be my good little pet." His father spoke rather than questioned, as if he _expected_ the accepting answer. This man was now thinking of Sherlock as, not his son, but an animal that needed to be controlled. Not that he thought of Sherlock as his son any way. He knelt in front of Sherlock, who was closing his eyes, as if he were trying to force himself asleep. "You sleep when I say you sleep." The man growled, viciously forcing up Sherlock's head to face his. Sherlock opened his teary eyes to stare into his father's, awaiting for the next words to be spoken. The man released him and stood up again to circle Sherlock's body. He stripped him of the scarf and coat and shoes, and threw them to the corner of the room.

Dare Sherlock say it? "How original." He did dare to say it, sarcastic and mocking. The detective forced himself up once again and propped himself up against the wall, moaning as his chest ached appallingly. He got a better view of the room. It was placid, vacant, mostly. Except for a bed that looked ridiculously uncomfortable; the mattress was shedding of its cotton, there were no bedsheets, therefore revealing blood stains from God knows. A small cage was in the other corner of the room, It was meant for a small to medium sized dog. The only light that got inside was from a small crated, rhombus shaped hole at the door. Just by looking at it made the detective feel cold and closed in. A simple wooden chair stood beside the cage. And last, two large steel dog bowls were placed near the door. One empty, and one filled with water.

_Torture, I guarantee... _

Going back to Sherlock's sarcastic remark, the man turned his head to stare at his son. The younger man had a chill sent up his spine by the threatening look, but stood his ground and kept his arrogant expression glued onto his face. His father walked towards him and knelt down. "Brilliant... I-I have to say. Tricking... me here. But... Kidnapping? Torture? How- how dull. You- you're obviously... out of original ideas... if... if you ever had any." Sherlock croaked, breathing heavily for air. He eyed his father with a look of hatred before he spit on the older man's boots. William clenched his jaw but quickly relaxed it and sighed.

"That's all right. You'll learn soon enough. You'll become obedient soon enough." He quietly grumbled before standing up again. Sherlock stared up at his father and his father stared back down. Before Sherlock could react, he was being grabbed onto by his hair and dragged across the floor. He let out a yelp (which later turned into numerous yelps), partially from the painful pulling sensation on his scalp, partially from his ribs being in a painful position, but mostly from the pure terror he was experiencing as he father made physical contact with him once more.

He was forced and tied to the chair (which was dragged into the center of the room), arms tied to the arms of the chair and legs tied to the legs. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why didn't you fight back? You've once fought a criminal with a broken arm, for God's sakes! Why won't you do the same to him?! Idiot. Idiot. _

As Sherlock was too busy thinking, he hadn't noticed that his father left the room and returned with a medium-sized box; one of those toolboxes that are usually kept in the garage. He laid the box beside of Sherlock and the chair he was bound to. Lifting the lid, he pulled out pliers and held it in front of the detective to see. The younger one didn't dare to find out what else was in the box, he didn't want to know any way.

"See what happens when you're bad?" The man grumbled as he moved the pliers closer towards Sherlock right hand. Sherlock quickly curled up his fist, knowing where this was going. William made a face of frustration and reached over Sherlock's curled up fist with his other hand, forcing his fingers to lay flat forwards. "Now, be good."

"Please." Sherlock accidentally released from his mouth. Well, almost accidentally. Maybe his father would snap out of his psychopathic state. Stupid idea. Sherlock gulped as the pliers got tucked under his index finger nail. "What is the point of all this?" And with that question, his father paused and looked up at his least favourite son.

"The point? Well, Sherlock, why do you solve crimes without accepting pay? Because it's _fun_." The man simply admitted. "Now, don't ask any questions. Ask questions and I'll cut out your tongue." _And they call me a psychopath. _William eyed his son before gripping the finger nail tight once again, and yanking it back. Sherlock let out a grunt as he witnessed his nail fly right off. The bed of his finger was left with a pink, wrinkly and bloody top, no nail to protect it. The younger man breathed heavily, trying not to cry out as the man pulled out the nail of his middle finger. At the ring finger, Sherlock let out a whimper. At his pinky, he started crying. At his thumb, he screamed. _  
_

* * *

"Have you got his address? Did you track him?" John desperately asked, looking over the shoulder of an officer as he tried to trace down the text on the 'special' laptop of his. Words displayed over the screen; NO MATCHES FOUND.

"God damn it." The officer whispered. John stepped backwards and paced around the living room before a few other officers told him to try to keep calm and take a seat. He sat down in his brown-ish velvet armchair and watched as Lestrade walked up closer to him.

"Do you have any clue where he would run to?"

"He chased after a van. I'm assuming it was either someone bad or important to make him interested enough to chase after it." John quietly replied as he leaned onto his hand and massaged his temple. "Any witnesses?"

"Yes, actually. A woman, Jacklyn White, said she had being having a coffee at Speedy's and she saw him rush in and ask the man at the counter if he saw something about a woman and her van-"

"A woman and her van- oh." John lifted his head from his palm and looked up at the Inspector.

"What?"

"Sherlock got drugged before yesterday as well, he was returned by a woman the next morning who claimed she had found him in an alley, all loopy."

"Your point?"

"He asked me later on if I knew the color or brand or shape of the vehicle she was driving, and I said no." John replied, standing up from his armchair to face Lestrade eye-level. _God Sherlock... I hope you're okay. _

"You think she was someone he knew?"

"Probably."

"Well, anyways, the woman said he'd noticed something about the van and that's when he sprinted after it. She was the only witness."

John lowered his head in worry and closed his eyes. _Sherlock, please don't get yourself killed. _And suddenly his phone buzzed. He thought, _it could either be really good news or really horrible news_, as he pulled the phone from his pocket and slowly lifted it to his face. It was an image... that he couldn't exactly make out. John slid his thumb across the screen to open the text, and nearly screamed when he saw the image.

It was Sherlock, either fell asleep or fainted. His right hand was spread out on the arm of the chair, the tops of his fingers bare and bloodied. He sat in an unusual position, as if he were avoiding to make contact with something near his chest. Was something broken?

A few seconds later was when the next text arrived.

**Do you miss him? He's not very obedient and he's awfully disrespectful. I'll have to fix that. You should have heard him screaming for you. **

**WH **

* * *

Sherlock blinked open his weary and moist eyes, discovering that this really was happening and it wasn't a nightmare. His position was different from what it had been, he was curled up in- oh, of course. He was in the cage. His shirt was taken off, but fortunately his trousers weren't. It was dark, and it irritated him that he couldn't see the damage of his fingers. Not to mention it was horrendously cold in the room, freezing down to Sherlock's every bone. The cage smelt of urine, and that's when he realised that he must have wet himself as he was unconscious. Humiliation soon filled him, he could already hear his father's vicious words and laughter in his head. The detective stretched his head upwards, only to find himself hitting the roof of the cage. He couldn't even sit up straight without having to lower his neck and torso for himself to fit. _Stupid stupid stupid stupid..._

Hours had passed, not really, but to Sherlock it felt like a lifetime had passed. Claustrophobia was setting in, his heart rate quickened and he began to hyperventilate. _John... Where's... John... I... John... Help... _He closed his eyes, thinking that maybe he'd fall asleep, only to find himself remembering the worst situation of his childhood; The time he was locked in that hollow closet in the basement suddenly became the most horrifying moment in his life history. Sherlock started to thrash about. _Which way is up? Get me out of here! No... I can't... _

"John!" He blurted out without meaning to. He felt betrayed as tears started to slip out of his eyes without his consent. "Help!" He cried out, kicking a wall of the cage. "Please... Please... Please...!" He repeated the word over and over until he began to sob. "I'll be good... I'll be good. I promise... John!"

The lights flickered on and a click of the cage door was heard before Sherlock's locks of hair were fisted and yanked out of the cage.

The open space suddenly felt overwhelming. How long was he in there? What did he do? A kick was delivered to his stomach, but Sherlock found that far better than the experience in the closed in area. The younger man gasped for air as he was on all fours on the floor.

"You stupid. Ungrateful. Worthless. Piece of shit." The man slurred as he kicked Sherlock in the stomach repeatedly. The detective coughed up blood as he gave up on holding himself up and let himself fall to the floor and take whatever given. "You know, no one's gonna come for you."

Sherlock viciously coughed again.

"Nobody cares that'ya even went missin'. They're all probably glad you're gone. Mycroft don't care. John doesn't either. It pulled off a lot of weight from their chests."

_No. He's lying. Obviously trying to make me more vulnerable. _

"You deserve all of this. The beatings. The harassment. You're a dirty little whore that deserves this. Remember that. Nobody cares. And if John did, it's too late anyways. I already sent some buddies to finish him off." He was lying, obviously, but Sherlock wasn't so sure. He lifted his head from the ground and stared at the man who dared to see himself as a father.

"You- you're lying... I-I know you are." _He's lying to make you more vulnerable. Don't listen to him._

"Sherlock, why would I lie about that? I'll even show you a photo after the work gets done. If you want." The man spoke in a calm voice that was surprisingly unsettling, yet convincing.

"I... I... No..." _No. He can't be dead... That's- that's impossible... That's... _Sherlock let his head fall and burst into a river of tears.

"Oh please, you should be happy for him. He's finally got you off his chest."

_John... John... I'm so sorry._

Suddenly, his father burst into laughter as he noticed the soaking wetness around the crotch section of Sherlock's trousers. "Did'ya fuckin' piss yourself, pussy?" He shouted, glancing into the cage to see a puddle of liquid. Sherlock heated with humiliation and shame as he tried to hide his face from the man.

"I-I was unconscious... I... didn't have control and I couldn't hold it any-" He started, not having the chance to finish as a boot was slammed against his stomach once again. He cried out in a mixture of pain and frustration and anger.

"Shut up. You fuckin' made a bit of a mess too. Hope this brings back memories." His father growled as he rushed towards Sherlock, fisting his locks of hair and dragging him towards the entrance. Sherlock grimaced as his chest viciously pounded against the cement floor. He moved his hands to the grip on his head, trying to release it desperately as it started to feel like someone was physically carving into his scalp. William hovered Sherlock's head over the water bowl and forced it down. It was large enough for Sherlock's entire head to sink in. "No... 'Mummy' to save your ass now." He leaned into his drowning son's ear, it was under the water but he got as close as he could get. Sherlock's muffled scream was heard through the water, air bubbles floating up to the top. His lungs were burning on fire as they ran out of air.

"I fucking hate you. You ruined my life."

* * *

"Oh God..." Lestrade mumbled to himself as John handed over his phone, revealing the image. John paced to and fro in the living room, _Oh God Sherlock... Hold on, I'm coming for you... Just hold on, _before there was a knock on the door. John turned his head to Lestrade, who shrugged his shoulders. _Now is not the time for a client. _There was the sound of the door opening and someone walking up the stairs.

John nearly fainted from relief. Mycroft, stood in front of the door of their living room, twiddling with his umbrella. "Mycroft." The former army doctor whispered in a breath like the elder brother's name was Holy.

"My brother gets kidnapped by our abusive father and you don't think to contact me first?!" Mycroft nearly shouted at John, who was too relieved to even feel guilty.

"Sorry... Sorry... I was panicked... it was in the heat of the moment... Sorry."

"Enough. Now where is your laptop so I can log onto the CCTV cameras?"

An officer budded in from the kitchen, holding the authorities laptop. "Here." He spoke, handing it over. Mycroft lifted the screen and clicked onto one of the programs that John knew nothing about. He typed in a special code and... it was a street cam, on their street. _Thank God Mycroft keeps cameras everywhere. _He quickly clicked a few certain things to rewind the film. And there he was. Sherlock on the street, minutes before his disappearance. He clicked play.

Sherlock, spotting a van and eyeing it suspiciously. The cameras switched views to get a better look at the van. John's jaw dropped. A girl getting into the vehicle, and the van driving away. Sherlock sprinting after it.

The camera switched views again.

Sherlock ran through alleyways and streets until he went to a stop. He propped himself up against the wall of an alley and peeked out, looking at something that the camera couldn't catch. Suddenly a man came from behind him, a gun in hand. He grabbed Sherlock from the behind and slammed the handle of his firearm against the detective's back head. He drags Sherlock's motionless body off into the direction where Sherlock was staring.

"What- what street is that?" John asked almost immediately as Sherlock's body was dragged off screen. Mycroft thought for a moment, probably memorized the London A-Z as well.

"... Oh how stupid." Mycroft mumbled to himself. "Oh horrendously stupid of me."

"What? What is it?"

"Our father, back a few years before his arrest. Moved into this neighborhood. I didn't think he'd ever show up. So I've deleted almost every trace of him from my mind."

"Yes and?"

"The address is 1873 Astleview Way. Lets go."

* * *

"Shut up!" William shouted as he whacked Sherlock across the face. "Why do you think I put the gag in you?!" The younger man was near hyperventilation as he sobbed and screamed through the gag. The man switched on the blow torch once again and forced up Sherlock's other foot, that had been free from burns. He moved the fire closer towards the sole of Sherlock's foot, burning the layers slowly. Sherlock screamed through his gag and let the tears free fall from his eyes, along with sweat literally dripping from his forehead.

"Please!" He tried to cry out, but it only came out as a muffled scream. His father slapped him across the face.

"What did I say about speaking without my permission?" He held a lecturing finger before switching off the blow torch and placing it on the floor. He walked behind Sherlock and untied the gag from the back of his head. The detective's sobs and hiccups grew louder as the gag fell to the floor. William untied the ropes that were forcing the younger man to the chair. "You're gonna love this part." The man reassured in a threatening voice. He forced Sherlock to his feet, but only for the detective to fall flat on his face. His feet were stinging and burning red, any pressure felt like being crushed by a boulder. He was starting to really regret his decision to decline Moriarty's offer.

"Do I have to do everything myself?" William scowled, pulling Sherlock up and carrying him towards the wrecked bed. He gathered the rope and bound Sherlock's sore wrists onto the bars of the bed, positioning him onto his stomach. Sherlock didn't fight back, too exhausted, too tired. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping he'd wake up from this nightmare. But instead, all he felt was the feeling of cold air hitting places it shouldn't hit. He looked down only to realise he was completely naked. _He's not... no... this can't happen... _And that's when the sounds of an unbuckling belt was heard.

"I can't wait to thrust into that tight virgin ass."

And suddenly Sherlock froze still. _No... He's not... _

_"I almost got to rapin'im... You should'a seen'im crying and beggin'! If you don't do as I ask, I'll do the same to you, except I will succeed with you."_

_"_No... Please. You- you can't." Sherlock stuttered aloud, his voice low and drowsy. This couldn't happen to him... _God no... God no... "_You can't! You bastard!" He continued, sounding for angry than afraid.

"What did I say about talking?!" The older man said, slapping Sherlock hard on the arse, causing him to flinch. "You're so pretty, Sherlock." He whispered afterwards, lowering his mouth against Sherlock's ear. The broken detective did his best to hold in cries of sadness and fear, burying his head into the foul smelling mattress and gripping onto the rope as tight as he can, preparing for the worst. A hand slid down his back and over his bum, moving to areas that he'd never expected would be touched by anyone. Sherlock let out a slight scream, which was slightly muffled out. He thrashed his lower body about, only receiving a firm hand forcing his foot out and a thumb pressing into the burning sole, resulting in the younger man to hiss. The man continued after Sherlock let his body go limp, kissing the detective's back, lowering down below. _This_ _body is just transport... Transport transport_. _Nothing but fucking transport... don't cuss, you idiot._ William spit repeatedly from above over Sherlock's bare body, with his alcohol scented breath spread all over the saliva. "Worthless piece of garbage." He nearly got to making full contact with Sherlock's entrance before gunfire was heard followed by a chilling scream.

Sherlock's shoulders tensed and his crying became more intense. He sobbed into the mattress, hiding his face from what ever being was in the room. Suddenly, a hand was placed on his shoulder and he thrashed about, letting out a load of screams.

"Sherlock? Sherlock! It's okay! It's okay! It's John..." John pulled away his hand and knelt beside the bed, waiting patiently for Sherlock to show his face when he was ready. "You're safe now. You're safe." He soothed as the so-called emotionless detective bawled aloud.

Sherlock slowly turned his head to face his dearest Watson, who gave a sad smile when Sherlock laid eyes on him. His face was red and his eyes were weary. "John...?"

"Yes Sherlock, I'm here. You're safe now."

Sherlock stared for a moment and started to viciously thrashed his arms about, "Get me out of these... Get me out!" He exclaimed as he went into panic. "Get me out, please!" John quickly walked around both sides of the bed, untying his best friend's wrists from the bars. Sherlock sat up, cradling his hands. The army doctor took off his fairly long coat and wrapped it around Sherlock's bloodied body, covering up his privates and keeping him warm from the freezing cold room.

"John."

"Yes Sherlock? What is it?"

"You're alive." It wasn't a question. Sherlock's lip trembled and his eyes turned foggy. John pulled him in for a hug. Sherlock felt so small, so empty and light. So vulnerable. As if John were pulling a child close into his chest. As for Sherlock, John felt and smelt of home. Warm and cozy and comfortable and safe. And although it had only been a few horrendous hours, the comfort of being held by John in the end was worth it all.

"I... I knew he- he was lying. He- he told me you were dead." Sherlock whimpered as John released him from the hug, but still held him close.

_That fucking bastard._

John nodded his head with a sad smile and turned his head to glimpse at the man on the floor next to the other side of the bed. Unconscious, John had shot him in the arm. And Lestrade went back for medics.

"Thank God." A voice from the doorway echoed through the room. Sherlock turned his head to see his elder brother walking towards him. "You idiot, do you have any idea how worried I was? I worry about you constantly and you go and get yourself kidnapped. Again." He spoke, relief breaking through his voice. Sherlock managed to pull a very slight half-smile from the corner of his mouth, though he didn't mean it at all.

* * *

After a few minutes of comforting, Mycroft headed back outside to hurry on Lestrade and the medics that didn't seem to be showing up. Right after Mycroft left the room, Sherlock turned to John with a serious facial expression. "John, help me up." He spoke, throwing his feet off the edge of the bed so they hung there motionless.

"Right, sorry. Can you walk?"

"No... He burnt the soles of my feet. I can try though, the left foot's not as bad as the right." Sherlock admitted, throwing his arm over John's shoulder. John mumbled something along the lined of 'Oh God' as he held back bile and lifted up his best friend, most of Sherlock's weight leaning on him. "And hand me your gun."

"What? Why?"

"Just- Please." Sherlock held out his hand as the other one remained around John's shoulder. John hesitated for a moment, but pulled the loaded gun from his carriage and handed it into Sherlock's free hand. He turned off the safety and eyed the firearm as if he were observing it.

"Why do you need it?" John asked, getting a bad vibe. Before he knew it, Sherlock aggressively pushed John away and quickly limped to the other side of the bed. Whimpering in pain as he did. "Sherlock!" John shouted, getting the wrong idea. Sherlock looked down at William, who was gaining consciousness and was groaning aloud. He aimed the gun to his father's head, and pulled the trigger.

The blogger stared in awe.

He sighed in relief and lowered the gun. And that was that. John's jaw dropped and his eyes widened, but at the same time, he was relieved himself as well. And as he could have sworn, he saw Sherlock smile over the corpse of his dead father.

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**Uh yeah. Thanks for reading. Review if you want! Sorry this one is kind of long. I apologise for any grammatical errors, I haven't had the chance to edit because I usually post from my phone.**

**I feel bad for doing this to Sherlock. I'd kill his Dad too sorry not sorry (I'm using this phrase ironically). I personally don't think he was abused by his father in the show or in canon but my little headcanon is that he was bullied throughout education years. **


	8. Chapter 8

**ye I decided to not do an alternate thing because I figured it wasn't really needed so yeah. Also sorry for the long pause for the epilogue. I was really depressed and suicidal at the moment. Also a bit self-conscious of opinions. So any ways, here we are with the epilogue! Sorry for any grammar mistakes, editing on my phone... I really need to fix the computer :S.**

**WARNING: Spoilers if you haven't watched TRF?**

**I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of its characters obviously.**

**POST-REICHENBACH and reunion kind of?**

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John had just gotten back from dinner with Mary; a cliche dinner with romantic candles and gourmet food, added with a bit of jazz music. The restaurant was lovely, the food was amazing, and John had spent all night looking into the eyes of the love of his life, his true soulmate.

Except he was lying to himself.

Mary was wonderful. She was funny, smart, beautiful, and literally anything a woman or man would want in a person. She was perfect. Except... something about her wasn't right. Something John knew about but didn't dare to bring himself to think about it. She... wasn't the man who brought John back to life. She wasn't the man who changed his life forever and beyond. She wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock was John's everything and John was Sherlock's everything. Both started alone, isolated, broken, until they met each other. Whether people suspected them to be gay or straight, everyone secretly knew that- hey, these two were meant to be together.

But now Sherlock's gone... He's dead and gone. John had to keep reminding himself that; Sherlock is dead and he'll never be back.

But God, how he missed him. For the two years that Sher- he couldn't even think of the name without tears welling up in his eyes. He loved him. Whether that sounded strange to others or not, he loved him. And he wasn't afraid to admit it any more.

_"John... John turn around and walk back the way you came..."_

_"No, I'm coming in."_

_"Just do as I ask!" Sherlock raised his voice into the phone. John could hear the sadness break his voice, what was happening? "Please!" He begged. John quickly obeyed since it must have been important if his dear friend, the so-called emotionless, was near tears._

_"Where?" He asked Sherlock, who was breathing heavily on the other side of the line. The former army medic walked about until he heard Sherlock's voice shouting at him to stop- "Stop right there!"- on the pavement behind a small building. "Sherlock!" John finally exclaimed, getting worried for his friend._

_"Okay now look up I'm on the rooftop." The words nearly struck John like lightning. He dared to look up and see his friend, standing on the edge of the roof with his trench coat flowing about. "Look I-I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this." This is why Sherlock drove me out? This?! No... Nothing is going to happen... Deny deny deny._

_"What's going on?" John asked, as if dumbfounded. Except he knew perfectly well what was going on, just... what for?_

_"An apology." Sherlock spoke and then paused for a bit, John almost thought he had hung up. "It's all true."_

_"What?"_

_"Everything they said about me. I..." Sherlock looked behind him, and turned back. "Invented Moriarty." He admitted. John was speechless... this... this wasn't true... He's lying, I know he is... Someone is forcing him to speak... John shook his head in denial and prepared himself to respond._

_"Why are you saying this?" John asked, holding back watery eyes and gulping down sadness. Sherlock sounded... so sad. He wanted to go up and comfort him (which Sherlock wouldn't prefer) but he was afraid of what that might cause his dear friend and flatmate to do..._

_"I'm a fake." Sherlock spat with his voice going off as if holding back tears. "The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you; that I created Moriarty, for my own purposes." He let out. John was angry now. Why? Why is he lying to me? This isn't true!_

_"Okay, shut up. Shut up, Sherlock. The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?" Stop it now, Sherlock._

_"Nobody could be that clever." The younger man forced out in a shaky voice._

_"You could." You always could._

_Sherlock let out a tear-filled laugh, which nearly made John hang up and run straight into the hospital. He heard sniffling of a runny nose and heavy breathing, until eventually Sherlock spoke up. "I researched you." John grew angry again. Stop lying Sherlock. It's not working. "Before we met, I discovered... everything that I could to impress you... It's a trick... It's just a magic trick..."_

_"No... Alright stop it now." That's it... I'm going in... I'm coming to you Sherlock, just hold on. It'll be okay. John began to walk towards the building when the voice on the other end started shouting at him._

_"No stay exactly where you are!" Sherlock cried out, John looked up to see him reaching out- oh God- to him. The army man backed up- "Okay."- and raised his hand as if to calm down his friend. "Don't move... Please, will you do this for me?" Oh God... he's crying..._

_"Do what?" John nearly brought himself to cry as well._

_"This phonecall... It... It's my note... That what people do don't they?... Leave a note."_

_Sherlock... don't you dare._

_"Leave a note when?" John's voice cracked as he purposely asked the stupid question. Denial denial denial._

_And finally... that words that ruined John's life from that day on, "Goodbye John."_

_"No... don't..." Please don't... Oh God please don't..._

_By a matter of seconds, his best friend's body was falling from the roof, and hit the ground with a snap._

_"SHERLOCK!"_

Originally, he was supposed to spend the night at Mary's. He had a feeling she was fancying for 'something' tonight, but he declined, and made an excuse that he was extremely tired and had work the next day. She smiled and nodded when he told her; probably thought he was still depressed over the 'Sherlock' situation. And she can't blame him. Hell, she barely knew the guy and she was upset about it.

Point is, John wasn't going to her flat that night. He wasn't going to his either... He was going to their flat... his and Sher-

He still couldn't bring himself to think of the name.

John went to 221B once every while. He had told Mrs. Hudson not to put it out for rent, and to keep everything exactly how it was two years ago.

_He fell down with a snap, just like his dearest friend. A bike... a fucking bicycle pushed him down. Not bothering to yell at the man on the bicycle, he got up and ran directly to the crowd that was surrounding his fallen flatmate. "Let me through! Let me through! I'm his friend, please!" He cried as he pushed away the crowd. There he was, Sherlock lying on the floor, his hair sticking onto his forehead, covered in blood. John reached forward to get hold of Sherlock's hand to check for a pulse which he eventually did after people were holding him back._

_He held onto his dear friend's hand, reaching for the wrist for a pulse; which later, finding none. John's whole world fell beneath him and he let go and... gave up. Fell in the arms of sobbing strangers. The medics eventually came and flipped Sherlock over on his back, revealing the bloody mess and oh, how bloody it was. The detective' eyes were pale blue, along with his flesh. He stared blankly into the sky; no life whatsoever. The man that was so young, so full of life and intelligence, was gone. And gone right before John's eyes._

_And God, how much it hurt._

He couldn't bring himself to walk into their old and dusty living room, which he knew would probably mock him with the soul of a friend that he couldn't save. It was filled with all their memories... Good and bad... From watching crap TV to drug busts, from interviewing clients to abusive father fights. He decided to go to the rooms instead... His room was empty... but Sherlock's...

It was stupid. He'd rather go in his dead flatmate's room rather than their own living room. Probably because there was less time spent together in there.

The door creaked open and... it was cleaner than John expected. He'd always known Sherlock's room was empty but... it was odd. John nearly let out a sad laugh as he stepped inside the tidy bedroom. There was two photos on the night stand beside the bed which John couldn't really see from his distance. He stepped closer until he hear a snap underneath him. He turned his head down and rolled his eyes at the sight. A syringe hidden on a tray under the table (most likely heroin) and a pack of cigarettes. He figured that he had no one to confront anymore of drugs, so he kept walking forward until he came to the night stand. One of the photos was of Mycroft and Sherlock when they were children; Sherlock giving an irritated look at the camera and Mycroft giving a blatantly obvious fake smile. The other photo was of him and his mother, when they were younger; Sherlock had a bruise on the side of his face, along with cuts. _Probably from his asshole of a father_, John presumed.

The doctor dropped the photo along with its picture frame. He sighed under his breath and reached down to pick it back up when he noticed the the frame broke and another photo was hidden behind it. Confused, John reached for the hidden photo and pulled it towards his face to get a better look. It was a picture... of them. It was the day that Mrs. Hudson bought her new camera and forced both of them to smile. Sherlock had pulled a ludicrous grin in the photo and John was laughing hysterically at it. He stared at the image for long until he notice a drop of wet had soaked into the edge of it. _I miss you so much. _John sat down at the edge of the bed and sobbed for a long time, holding onto the photo like it was Sherlock's life, because he felt as if he no longer had one any more.

Eventually, he had run out of tears and stared back down at the image. "Sherlock Holmes." He spoke aloud, like it was a Holy name.

And as he stared at the photo, John could hear the faint sound of music from a violin.

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**Alrightttt. Thanks for reading and leave a review if you like! Uh, sorry for any grammar mistakes... I'll edit soon.**


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